College 
Lib. 
PT 

2R40 
M82E5a 
1910 


ORITURJ 


ERMANN  SUDERMANN 


m 


TRANSLATED  BY 
ARCHIBALD  ALEXANDER 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


BOOKS  BY  HERMANN  SUDERMANN 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


The  Joy  of  Living  (Es  Lebe  das  Leben).  A  Play 
in  Five  Acts.  Translated  from  the  German  by 
Edith  Wharton.  net  $1.25 

Roses.  Four  One- Act  Plays.  Translated  from  the 
German  by  Grace  Frank.  net  $1.25 

Morituri.  Three  One-Act  Plays.  Translated  from 
the  German  by  Archibald  Alexander. 

net  $1.25 


MORITURI 


MORITURI 

THREE  ONE-ACT  PLAYS 

TEJA  —  FRITZCHEN  —  THE    ETERNAL    MASCULINE 

BY 

HERMANN  SUDERMANN 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GERMAN 
BY 

ARCHIBALD   ALEXANDER 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
NEW   YORK::::::::::::::::::::::::i9iO 


COPYRIGHT,  19 10,  BY 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Published  September,  igio 


College 
Library 

FT 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

TEJA  1 

FRITZCHEN  57 

THE    ETERNAL    MASCULINE  105 


2082498 


I 
TEJA 

A    DRAMA    IN     ONE    ACT 


[1 


PERSONS 

TEJA,  King  of  the  Goths. 
BALTHILDA,  Queen. 
AMALABERGA,  her  mother. 
AGILA,  Bishop. 

EURIC  1 

Lords  in  the  former  king- 
THEODEMIR    > 

dom  of  the  Goths. 
ATHANARIC     J 

ILDIBAD,  spearbearer  of  the  King. 
HARIBALT,  a  warrior. 
Two  CAMP  WATCHERS. 


[2] 


TEJA 

The  scene  represents  the  King's  tent.  The  curtains 
are  open  in  the  background  and  permit  a  view  through 
the  camp  of  the  Gothic  warriors,  over  toward  Vesuvius, 
and  the  distant  sea,  which  shine  in  the  splendour  of  the  set- 
ting sun.  On  the  left  stands  the  rudely  constructed  throne 
of  the  King.  In  the  centre,  a  table  with  seats  around  it. 
On  the  right,  the  King's  couch,  consisting  of  skins  pieced 
together;  above,  a  rack  holding  many  kinds  of  weapons. 
Link  torches  on  the  right  and  left. 

FIRST  SCENE. 
TWO  CAMP  WATCHERS. 

FIRST  CAMP  WATCHER. 
Ho  thou !    Art  thou  fallen  asleep  ? 

SECOND  CAMP  WATCHER. 
Why  should  I  be  fallen  asleep  ? 

FIRST  CAMP  WATCHER. 

Because  thou  leanest  so  limber  upon  thy  spear,  bent 
like  the  bow  of  a  Hun. 

[3] 


TEJA 

SECOND  CAMP  WATCHER. 
I  stand  so  bent,  because  thus  hunger  gripes  me  less. 

FIRST  CAMP  WATCHER. 

'Tis  of  no  avail.  It  availeth  as  little  as  thy  belt.  After- 
ward, in  standing  upright,  it  is  the  more  severe. 

SECOND  CAMP  WATCHER. 
How  long  is  this  to  last? 

FIRST  CAMP  WATCHER. 
Until  the  ships  come — that  is  simple  indeed. 

SECOND  CAMP  WATCHER. 
Yea,  but  when  are  the  ships  coming  ? 

FIRST  CAMP  WATCHER. 

How  can  I  know  that  ?  Look  toward  the  heights.  There, 
high  upon  the  Milchberg,  there  standeth  the  watch,  and 
overlooketh  the  sea  for  twenty  miles.  If  he  knoweth  not! 
There,  behind  the  Misenian  hills,  there  they  must  be 
coming. 

SECOND  CAMP  WATCHER. 
Verily,  if  the  Byzantian  let  them  pass. 

FIRST  CAMP  WATCHER. 
The  Byzantian  hath  no  ships. 
[4] 


TEJA 

SECOND  CAMP  WATCHER. 

The  Byzantian  hath  so  many  ships  that  he  can  sur- 
round the  whole  Italian  world  with  them  as  with  a  hedge; 
as  close  as  the  Byzantian  Eunuch  hath  surrounded  us,  these 

seven  weeks. 

FIRST  CAMP  WATCHER. 

These  seven  weeks! 

SECOND  CAMP  WATCHER. 

Knowest  thou  what  I  got  for  nourishment,  at  noon  this 
day  ?  The  same  rind  of  bacon  on  which  I  brake  my  teeth 
eight  days  ago.  Forsooth,  I  had  cut  my  three  crosses, 
with  my  knife.  That  was  a  meeting  again!  But  to-day, 
I  devoured  it  ...  a  noble  feast  for  a  king's  marriage 

day! 

FIRST  CAMP  WATCHER. 

Think'st  thou  the  King  had  more  ? 

SECOND  CAMP  WATCHER. 

And  think'st  thou  we  would  suffer  ourselves  to  be 
beaten  to  death,  suffer  ourselves  to  be  broken  on  the 
wheel,  to  be  thrust  through  and  put  to  shame,  if  he  had 
more  than  we?  Think'st  thou  we  would  lie  here  like 
chained  dogs,  and  watch,  did  we  not  know  that  there  is 
nothing  to  watch  ? 

FIRST  CAMP  WATCHER. 
There  is  gold  enough. 

[5] 


TE  JA 

SECOND  CAMP  WATCHER. 

Gold!  Pah,  gold!  Of  gold  I  have  enough  myself.  In 
my  cellar  at  Canusium,  I  have  buried  a  treasure — eh! 
.  .  .  thou!  The  wives  behind  there  in  the  Wagenburg 
must  have  meat  left  .  .  .  wine  too,  they  must  still  have. 

FIRST  CAMP  WATCHER. 

Yea,  the  wives  are  there  well  enough — thou  hast  none, 
I  suppose. 

SECOND  CAMP  WATCHER. 

A  Greek  dishonoured  mine,  and  I  stabbed  him  to  death ! 
(Pauses.)  Good!  The  wives  must  have  meat;  they  must 
have  wine  too.  But  how  long  that —  (Noise  and  clash  of 
weapons,  slowly  approaching.)  There,  the  marriage  is 
surely  ended. 

FIRST  CAMP  WATCHER. 

Silence!  There  cometh  the  aged  Ildibad — with  the 
King's  shield.  (Both  put  themselves  on  guard.) 

SECOND  SCENE. 
THE  SAME.     ILDIBAD. 

ILDIBAD. 

(Hangs  the  shield  in  its  place,  and  puts  away  the  weapons 
lying  about.)     Hath  any  news  been  sent  down  ? 
[6] 


TE  JA 

FIRST  CAMP  WATCHER. 

Nay! 

ILDIBAD. 
Are  ye  hungry  ? 

SECOND  CAMP  WATCHER. 
Oh,  yea. 

ILDIBAD. 

Hunger  is  for  women — mark  ye  that!  And  show  not 
such  dark  faces  to  our  young  Queen.  That  becometh 
not  a  marriage  day. 

THIRD  SCENE. 

Surrounded  by  noisy  people,  TEJA  and  BALTHILDA  have 
appeared  in  front  of  the  tent.  They  enter  led  by  BISHOP 
AGILA.  Before  them,  two  choir-boys  sivinging  censers.  Be- 
hind them,  AMALAJBERGA,  EURIC,  ATHANARIC,  THEO- 

DEMIR,  and  other  lords  and  military  leaders.     The  tent 
covers  are  let  down.     Exeunt  the  watchers. 

(BISHOP  lets  go  the  hands  of  the  bridal  pair,  and  turns 
back  to  AMALABEROA.) 

(TEJA  stands  gloomy  and  brooding.  BALTHILDA  casts 
a  shy  imploring  look  around  her.  Painful  silence.) 


TE  JA 

ILDIBAD  (softly). 
Now  must  thou  say  something,  King,  to  welcome  thy 

young  wife. 

TEJA  (softly}. 

Must  I?  (Taking  one  of  the  choir-boys  by  the  nape  of 
the  neck.)  Not  so  vehemently,  boy;  the  smoke  cometh 
up  into  our  nostrils.  What  dost  thou  when  thou  wieldest 

not  thy  censer? 

BOY. 

I  wield  my  sword,  King. 

TEJA. 

That  is  right.  But  make  ye  haste  with  wielding  the 
sword,  or  ye  may  easily  be  too  late.  (Softly.)  Nothing 
to  be  seen  of  the  ships,  Ildibad  ? 

ILDIBAD. 
Nothing,  my  King.    But  thou  must  speak  to  thy  young 

wife. 

TEJA. 

Yea  ...  so  now  I  have  a  wife,  Bishop  ? 

BISHOP. 
Here  standeth  thy  wife.  King,  and  waiteth  on  thy  word. 

TEJA. 

Forgive  me,  Queen,  if  I  find  not  this  word.    I  have  been 
brought  up  in  the  midst  of  battles,  and  other  dwelling- 
[8] 


TE  JA 

place  have  I  not  known.     It  will  be  hard  for  thee  to 
share  this  with  me. 

BALTHILDA. 

King  .  .  .  my  mother  .  .  .  taught  me  .  .  .  (She 
stops.) 

TEJA  (with  assumed  kindness). 

And  what  taught  thee  thy  mother? 

AMALABERGA. 

That  a  wife  belongeth  to  her  husband — above  all,  in 
the  hour  of  distress;  she  taught  her  that,  King. 

TEJA. 

That  may  indeed  be  true  and  holy  to  ye  wives.  .  .  . 
If  only  the  husband  also  belonged  to  his  wife  in  the  hour 
of  distress.  And  yet  one  thing,  Amalaberga.  It  hath 
been  told  me  that  in  the  morning,  cocks  crow  near  ye 
wives  yonder  in  the  Wagenburg.  For  weeks,  the  war- 
riors have  eaten  no  meat.  I  counsel  ye,  give  them  the 
cocks.  (AMALABERGA  bows.) 

BISHOP. 
My  King! 

TEJA. 

Heh!  Thou  hast  but  now  spoken  so  beautifully  at 
the  field-altar,  Bishop.  Dost  thou  desire  to  preach  so 
soon  again  ? 

[9] 


TE  JA 

BISHOP. 

I  will  speak  to  thee,  because  bitterness  devoureth  thy 
soul. 

TEJA. 
Verily  ?    Thou  thinkest  it  ?    Then  I  give  ear. 

BISHOP. 

Behold,  like  the  spirit  of  divine  wrath,  so  hast  thou 
risen  up  among  us,  young  man.  .  .  .  Not  thy  years  did 
the  nation  count,  only  thy  deeds.  .  .  .  Old  men  bowed 
willingly  to  thy  youth,  and  since  thou  hadst  yet  a  long 
time  to  serve,  as  one  of  the  humblest,  wert  thou  already 
our  ruler.  From  the  golden  throne  of  Theoderic,  where 
mercy  had  sat  in  judgment,  where  Totilas  bestowed  par- 
don with  a  smile,  rang  out  sternly  thy  bloody  word  .  .  . 
And  woe  clave  to  us  as  a  poisoned  wound.  .  .  .  Pursued 
hither  and  thither  beneath  the  hot  outpourings  of  Vesu- 
vius, we  are  now  encamped  with  women  and  children; 
while  Byzantium,  with  its  hireling  soldiers,  holdeth  us 
surrounded. 

TEJA. 

That  it  surely  doth,  ha,  ha!  Not  a  mouse  ean  come 
through. 

BISHOP. 

Our  gaze  wandereth  wistfully  seaward:  for  thence  hath 
God  promised  us  bread. 

[10] 


TE  JA 

TEJA. 
No  tidings  of  the  ships  ? 

ILDIBAD  (softly). 
Nothing. 

BISHOP. 

Before  we  armed  ourselves  for  a  new  war  with  misery, 
as  free  men,  true  to  the  ancient  law,  we  determined  to 
choose  thee  a  wife,  for  in  his  own  body  should  the  King 
taste  why  the  Goth  loveth  death. 

TEJA. 
Found  ye  that  your  King  loved  life  overmuch  ? 

BISHOP. 
My  King! 

TEJA. 

Nay,  that  dared  ye  not,  for  every  hour  of  this  life  would 
hold  ye  up  to  mockery.  .  .  .  And  even  if  the  ancient  law 
required  it,  why  must  ye  weld  me  with  this  young  thing 
which,  trembling  for  fear  before  me  and  ye,  hideth  in  her 
mother's  skirts  ?  And  especially  on  so  fitting  a  day,  when 
hunger  doth  furnish  the  marriage  music.  .  .  .  Look 
upon  me,  Queen — I  must  call  thee  by  thy  title  of  a  half- 
hour,  for,  by  God!  I  hardly  yet  know  thy  name.  I  pray 
thee,  look  upon  me!  Dost  thou  know  me? 

BALTHILDA. 
Thou  art  the  King,  Sire. 

[11] 


TEJA 

TEJA. 

Yea.  But  for  thee  I  should  be  man,  not  King.  .  .  . 
And  knowest  thou  what  manner  of  man  standeth  here 
before  thee  ?  .  .  .  Behold !  These  arms  have  been  hitherto 
plunged  in  reeking  blood,  not  the  blood  of  men  shed  in 
manly  strife,  I  speak  not  of  that,  that  honoureth  the  man — 
blood  of  unarmed  pale  children,  of — (shudders) — Thou 
shalt  have  great  joy,  if  I  come  with  these  arms  to  wind 
them  about  thy  neck.  .  .  .  Dost  thou  indeed  hear  me? 
Have  I  not  a  beautiful  voice,  a  sweet  voice  ?  Only  it 
is  a  little  hoarse.  It  is  weary  with  screaming  loud  com- 
mands to  murder.  .  .  .  Peculiar  pleasure  shall  be  thine 
when  thou  hearest  tender  words  with  this  bewitching 
hoarseness.  Am  I  not  truly  a  born  lover?  These  wise 
men  knew  that;  therefore  they  taught  me  my  calling. 
...  Or  believe  ye,  it  was  your  duty  to  beguile  your  King 
in  the  weariness  of  camp  life;  as  the  great  Justinian  dallied 
in  golden  Byzantium,  and  sent  forth  his  eunuchs  to  slay 
Gothic  men  ?  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

BISHOP. 
My  King,  take  heed  lest  thou  be  angry. 

TEJA. 

I  thank  thee,  friend.     Yet  that  signifieth  nothing.     It 
is  but  my  marriage  humour.  .  .  .  But  now  I  will  speak  to 
[12] 


TE  JA 

ye  in  earnest — (Ascends  to  the  high  seat  of  the  throne.) 
On  the  golden  throne  of  Theoderic,  where  mercy  sat  in 
judgment,  can  I,  alas!  not  take  my  place;  for  that  is  being 
chopped  into  firewood  at  Byzantium.  .  .  .  Neither  smil- 
ing like  Totilas  can  I  pardon,  for  no  one  longer  desireth 
our  pardon.  .  .  .  From  the  glorious  nation  of  the  Goths, 
there  hath  sprung  a  horde  of  hungry  wolves — therefore  it 
needeth  a  wolf  as  master.  Thou,  Bishop,  didst  call  me 
the  spirit  of  divine  wrath,  which  I  am  not.  ...  I  am  but 
the  spirit  of  your  despair.  As  one  who  all  his  life  hath 
hoped  for  nothing,  hath  wished  for  nothing,  I  stand  before 
you,  and  so  I  shall  fall  before  you.  That  ye  knew,  and 
therefore  ye  are  wrong,  ye  men,  to  reproach  me  secretly. 
Contradict  me  not!  ...  I  read  it  clearly  enough  between 
your  lowering  brows.  .  .  .  Because  it  goeth  ill  with  us, 
make  not  a  scapegoat  of  me — that  I  counsel  ye. 

THEODEMIR. 

King,  wound  us  not.  .  .  .  The  last  drop  of  our  blood 
belongeth  to  thee.  Cast  us  not  into  the  pot  with  these 
old  men. 

EURIC. 

We  old  men  fight  as  well  as  they;  and  love,  young  man, 

as  well  as  they. 

TEJA. 

Then  let  that  suffice.    Your  Queen  shall  soon  enough 
learn  how,  in  misfortune,  friends  quarrel  among  them- 
[13] 


TE  JA 

selves.  And  as  ye  pass  through  the  camp,  tell  the  war- 
riors, the  only  thing  that  frets  the  King  this  day — this 
day  of  joy,  is  it  not? — is  that  he  hath  not  the  power  to 
offer  them  a  worthy  marriage  feast  ...  or  yet  per- 
chance—  Ildibad. 

ILDIBAD. 

(Who  on  the  right  has  secretly  spoken  in  bewilderment 
to  a  watcher  wJw  has  just  entered.)  Yea,  Sire. 

TEJA. 
What  have  we  still  in  our  stores,  old  man  ? 

ILDIBAD    (controlling  his  emotion). 
Truly,  thou  hast  given  away  almost  all  thy  provisions. 

TEJA. 
I  ask  thee,  what  remaineth? 

ILDIBAD. 
A  jar  of  fermented  milk,  and  two  stale  crusts  of  bread. 

TEJA. 

Ha,  ha,  ha!  Now  thou  seest,  Queen,  what  a  poor  hus- 
band thou  hast  got.  Yet  if  the  ships  be  there,  as  the 
people  say,  then  will  I  do  royal  honours  to  every  one,  even 
as  is  his  due.  Yet  tell  it  not,  that  would  mar  their  joy. 
But  if  they  hear  the  trumpets  sound,  then  tell  them  there 
will  be  meat  and  wine  on  the  long  tables,  so  much  as — 

[14] 


TE  JA 

(To  ILDIBAD,  who  glides  across  the  stage  to  his  side) 

What  is  it  ? 

ILDIBAD  (softly). 

The  watch  departeth.     The  ships  are  lost. 

TEJA. 
(Without    the    least    change    of    countenance.)     Lost — 

how — in  what  way  ? 

ILDIBAD. 
Treason. 

TEJA. 

Yea,  verily!  Yea — meat  and  wine  so  much  as  each 
one  will,  at  long  white  tables — I  shall  have  it  divided — 
and  Sicilian  fruits  for  the  women,  and  sweetmeats  from 
Massilia.  (Sinks  reeling  upon  the  seat  of  the  throne,  and 
gazes  absently  into  the  distance.) 

THE  MEN. 
What  aileth  the  King  ?     Look  to  the  King! 

BALTHILDA. 

Surely  he  is  hungry,  mother.  (Approaches  him.  The 
men  draw  back.)  My  King! 

TEJA. 
Who  art  thou,  woman  ?    What  wilt  thou,  woman  ? 

BALTHILDA. 
Can  I  help  thee,  Sire? 

[15] 


TE  JA 

TEJA. 

Ah,  it  is  thou,  the  Queen!  Pardon  me;  and  pardon 
me,  also,  ye  men.  (Rises.) 

BISHOP. 
King,  thou  must  husband  thy  strength. 

THEODERIC. 
Yea,  King,  for  the  sake  of  us  all. 

THE  MEN. 
For  the  sake  of  us  all. 

TEJA. 

In  truth,  ye  warn  me  rightly.  Women,  I  pray  ye, 
return  to  your  encampment.  We  have  to  take  counsel. 
Do  thou,  Bishop,  see  well  to  their  safe  conduct. 

AMALABERGA  (softly). 
Make  thy  obeisance,  child! 

BALTHILDA  (softly). 
Mother,  will  he  speak  no  more  to  me? 

AMALABERGA. 
Make  thy  obeisance!     (Balthilda  obeys.) 

TEJA. 

Fare    ye    well!     (Exeunt    BALTHILDA,    AMALABERGA, 
BISHOP.      Shouts  of  applause  without,  greet  them.) 
[16] 


TE  JA 

FOURTH  SCENE. 

TEJA.  THEODEMIR.  EURIC.  ILDIBAD.  THE 
WATCHER.  THE  LORDS. 

TEJA. 

I  have  sent  away  the  women  and  the  priest;  for  what 
comes  now  concerneth  us  warriors  alone.  Where  is  the 
watcher  ?  Come  forth,  man. 

THK  MEN  (muttering). 
The  watcher  from  the  hill!     The  watcher! 

TEJA. 

Hereby  ye  know,  men:  the  ships  are  lost.  (Tumult. 
Cries  of  horror.) 

TEJA. 

Quiet,  friends,  quiet!    Thy  name  is  Haribalt. 

WATCHER. 
Yea,  Sire! 

TEJA. 

How  long  hast  thou  stood  at  thy  post  ? 

WATCHER. 
Since  early  yesterday,  Sire. 

TEJA. 

Where  are  thy  two  companions  ? 
[17] 


TE  JA 

WATCHER. 
They  remain  above,  as  thou  hast  commanded,  Sire. 

TEJA. 
Good,  then  what  saw  ye  ? 

WATCHER. 

The  smoke  of  Vesuvius,  Sire,  descended  upon  the  sea, 
beyond  the  promontory  of  Misenum.  Thus  we  saw  noth- 
ing until  to-day  about  the  sixth  hour  of  the  evening. 
Then  suddenly  the  ships  appeared — five  in  number — 
quite  near  the  shore,  there  where  it  is  said  a  city  of  the 
Romans  lies  buried  in  ruins.  .  .  .  One  of  us  determined 
to  hasten  away,  since 

TEJA. 
Stay!     Wliat  signal  bare  the  ships? 

WATCHER. 
The  foresail  bound  crosswise  and 


TEJA. 
And? 

WATCHER. 
A  palm  branch  at  the  stern. 

TEJA. 

Ye  saw  the  palm  branch? 

[18] 


TE  JA 

WATCHER. 
As  I  see  thee,  Sire. 

TEJA. 
Good,  go  on. 

WATCHER. 

Then  we  perceived  that  the  fishing-boats  with  which 
the  Byzantians  take  their  food,  closely  surrounded  the 
ships,  and  then 

TEJA. 
What  then  ? 

WATCHER. 

Verily,  Sire,  they  steered  quite  peaceably  toward  the 
camp  of  the  enemy.  There  they  unloaded.  (The  men 
cover  their  heads.  Silence.) 

TEJA. 

(Who  looks,  smiling,  from  one  to  the  other.)  It  is  good. 
.  .  .  That  is:  thou  shalt  say  nothing  there  without.  .  .  . 
From  me  they  should  learn  it.  (Exit  Watcher.) 

FIFTH  SCENE. 

TEJA.      THEODEMIR.      EURIC.      ATHANARIC    and    the 

OTHERS.     LORDS. 

TEJA. 
Your  counsel,  ye  men! 

[19] 


TEJA 

THEODEMIR. 
Sire,  we  have  none  to  give. 

TEJA. 
And  thou,  Euric,  with  all  thy  wisdom? 

EURIC. 

Sire,  I  have  served  the  great  Theoderic.  And  yet  he 
would  have  had  none  to  give. 

TEJA. 

Come  then,  I  know.  ...  It  is  easy  and  quick  to  be 
understood:  Die!  .  .  .  Why  look  ye  at  me  with  such 
mistrust  ?  .  .  .  Do  ye  not  yet  understand  me  ?  Think 
ye  I  require  ye  to  wrap  yourselves  in  your  mantles,  like 
cowardly  Greeks,  and  beg  your  neighbours  for  a  thrust  in 
the  back  ?  Be  calm :  I  will  protect  you  against  shame, 
since  I  can  no  more  lead  you  to  honour. — Our  place  here 
cannot  be  taken,  so  long  as  thirty  of  us  have  power  to 
wield  our  spears.  But  the  hour  shall  come — and  at  no 
distant  time — when  the  last  arm,  crippled  by  hunger, 
can  no  more  be  outstretched  to  beg  quarter  of  the  invad- 
ing murderers. 

THEODEMIR. 

No  Gothic  man  doeth  that,  King! 
[20] 


TE  JA 

TEJA. 

For  what  thou  art,  thou  canst  give  surety;  for  what  thou 
shalt  become,  thou  givest  no  surety  to  me.  So  I  counsel 
and  command  ye  to  prepare  yourselves  for  the  last  con- 
flict. In  the  first  gray  of  the  morning,  we  shall  burst  forth 
from  the  clefts,  and  array  ourselves  against  the  Byzantian 
in  open  field. 

ALL. 
Sire,  that  is  impossible. 

THEODEMIR. 
King,  consider,  we  are  one  against  a  hundred. 

TEJA. 
And  thou,  Euric? 

EURIC. 
Sire,  thou  leadest  us  to  destruction. 

TEJA. 

Yea,  verily.  Said  I  anything  else  ?  Do  ye  believe 
me  to  be  so  untried  in  things  of  war  that  I  know  not  that  ? 
Why  then  halt  ye?  When  Totilas  led  us,  we  were  more 
than  a  hundred  thousand.  Now  we  are  but  five. — They 
all  knew  how  to  die,  and  can  we,  a  miserable  remnant, 
have  forgotten  it? 

ALL. 
Nay,  King,  nay! 

[21] 


TE  JA 

EURIC. 

Sire,  grant  us  time  to  accustom  ourselves  to  that  hor- 
rible thing. 

TEJA. 

Horrible?  What  seemeth  horrible  to  ye?  I  speak 
not  indeed  to  Romans  who  reel  from  the  mass  to  the 
lupanar,  and  from  the  lupanar  to  the  mass.  Yet  there 
is  not  one  among  ye  whose  breast  is  not  covered 
with  scars  like  an  old  stone  with  moss.  These  twenty 
years  ye  have  made  sport  of  death,  and  now  it  cometh  in 
earnest,  doth  a  Gothic  man  speak  of  "horrible"?  What 
will  ye?  Will  ye  lie  and  hunger?  Will  ye  devour  one 
the  other,  like  rats  ?  Good.  But  I  shall  not  do  it  with 
ye!  Not  I!  To-morrow,  I  take  spear  and  shield,  and 
go  to  gain  on  my  own  account  the  bit  of  death  for  which 
I  long  and  languish  like  a  thief  since  ye  made  me  leader 
of  your  lost  cause. — And  thou  at  least,  my  old  compan- 
ion, thou  comest  with  me — eh  ? 

ILDIBAD  (jailing  down  before  him). 
I  thank  thee,  Sire!    Why  ask  whether  I  come! 

ALL. 

We  too,  King.     We  all,  we  all! 
[22] 


TE  JA 

THEODEMIR. 

Thou  shouldst  be  praised,  King,  that  thou  hast  pointed 
to  us  the  way  of  happiness.  And  be  not  angry  with  us, 
if  we  were  not  able  straightway  to  follow  thee.  Now  I 
perceive  clearly  thy  great  thought.  From  grief  and  dis- 
cord and  despair,  we  rise,  we  do  not  go  down  to  death. 
.  .  .  Laughing,  treadeth  each  on  the  other's  corpse,  in 
order  laughing  to  sink  down  like  him.  ...  A  light  will 
go  forth  from  us  over  the  wide  world.  .  .  .  Ah,  that  will 
be  a  draught  from  golden  goblets — that  will  be  a  riot  of 
exultant  joy.  Thank  thee,  my  King.  Often  have  I 
envied  thee  thy  crown,  now  I  venture  to  envy  it  no 
more. 

TEJA. 

The  thing  will  come  to  pass  for  the  most  part  otherwise 
than  thou  dost  imagine  it,  Theodernir.  Yet  I  am  glad 
that  among  the  Goths,  such  inspiration  still  abideth. 

EURIC. 

Also  to  me,  King,  grudge  not  a  word;  for  I  have  indeed 
seen  golden  days.  .  .  .  Thou  art  not  only  the  boldest, 
thou  art  also  the  wisest  of  all.  .  .  .  Had  we  now  faltered, 
so  should  we  all  have  fallen  without  defence,  by  the 
murderer's  sword  .  .  .  And  not  only  we,  but  the  sick — and 
the  children — and  the  wives. 

[23] 


TE  JA 

TEJA. 
Ay,  indeed,  the  wives!    Of  them  I  had  not  thought  at 

all. 

EURIC. 

But  now  to-morrow,  we  shall  stand  in  battle,  and  on  the 
second  and  third  day,  if  we  hold  out  so  long,  so  that  as- 
tonishment and  fear  at  the  miracle  will  lay  hold  on  the 
Byzantian  and  all  the  rabble  of  Huns  and  Suevians  which 
he  draggeth  after  him.  .  .  .  We  cannot  utterly  destroy 
them,  but  we  can  bait  them  with  our  blood  till  they  be 
weary.  .  .  .  And  when  no  one  on  that  side  is  able  to 
hold  spear  and  bow,  then  shall  the  hour  come  when  the 
Eunuch  will  have  it  said:  "Depart  in  peace."  How 
many  of  ye  are  then  still  left  ? — I  fear  not  many 

TEJA  (laughing). 
We,  surely  not! 

ALL  (vrith  cruel  laughter). 

Nay,  we  surely  not! 

EURIC. 

Then  shall  they  take  wives  and  children  into  the  midst 
of  them,  and,  head  high,  with  naked  swords,  descend 
straight  through  the  Byzantian  camp  toward  Naples,  to 
buy  a  piece  of  bread.  And  I  tefl  ye,  with  such  fear  shall 
they  be  gazed  at,  that  not  even  once  shall  a  dog  of  the 
Huns  dare  to  bark  at  them. 

[24] 


TE  JA 

TEJA. 

Wife  and  child!  Wife  and  child!  What  have  we  to  do 
with  them  ? 

ATHANARIC. 
King,  thou  revilest  the  dearest  of  our  possessions. 

TEJA. 

Maybe ! — I  know  only  that  there  were  too  many  mouths 
in  the  morning  when  the  rations  were  divided.  Other- 
wise we  might  have  been  able  to  support  ourselves.  And 
yet,  this  one  thing  I  say  to  ye — and  I  shall  enjoin  it  on  the 
men  without,  upon  their  word  as  warriors — that  none  of 
the  women  know  aught  of  our  purpose.  I  will  not  that 
even  one  man  be  softened  by  the  tears  and  cries  of  women. 

ATHANARIC. 

Sire,  that  is  inhuman  which  thou  requirest,  to  take  no 
leave  of  our  wives. 

TEJA. 

Take  leave  of  them,  me  notwithstanding,  but  remain 
dumb  as  ye  do  it.  He  that  hath  wife  and  child  here,  let 
him  go  to  the  Wagenburg,  and  provide  himself  food  and 
drink,  for  the  women  delight  to  keep  a  remnant  between 
their  fingers.  This  let  him  share  with  the  unmarried,  and 
be  joyful  when  he  can. 

[25] 


TE  JA 

EURIC. 

And  what  should  they  say  to  their  wives,  Sire,  since 
already  thou  hast  strictly  forbidden  communication  ? 

TEJA. 

Say  ye,  it  happens  because  of  my  marriage!  Or  the 
ships  are  there,  if  that  sounds  more  worthy  of  belief. 
Say  what  ye  will.  Only  that  one  thing,  keep  for  your- 
selves. 

THEODEMIR. 

And  wilt  thou  thyself  nevermore  see  thy  young  wife  ? 

TEJA. 

Eh  ?  Nay.  ...  I  mark  not  the  least  desire  to.  Surely 
now  I  shall  speak  to  the  people.  I  would  that  I  had  thy 
tongue,  Theodemir. — The  errand  is  troublesome  to  me, 
for  I  should  speak  great  words,  and  I  feel  them  not. 
Come!  (Exeunt  all,  with  ILDIBAD  slowly  following.) 

SIXTH  SCENE. 

The  stage  remains  unoccupied  for  a  short  time. — The 
voice  of  the  King  is  heard,  who  is  received  with  acclamation. 
Then  after  a  few  seconds,  subdued  cries  of  woe.  ILDIBAD 
returns  and  sits  down  upon  a  stump  near  the  curtain. 
Then  he  lights  two  torches  which  he  puts  into  the  links, 
and  prepares  the  weapons  of  the  King.  Outside  arises  a 
shout  of  enthusiasm,  which  again  is  subdued. 
[26] 


TE  JA 

SEVENTH  SCENE. 

ILDIBAD.     BISHOP  AGILA  (tottering  in  with  exhaustion 
and  excitement). 

ILDIBAD. 
Wilt  thou  not  be  seated,  most  worthy  lord  ? 

BISHOP. 
And  goest  thou  not  to  hear  what  the  King  saith  ? 

ILDIBAD. 

That  hath  naught  to  do  with  me,  most  worthy  lord. 
The  King  and  I — for  a  long  time,  we  are  united  in  action. 

BISHOP. 
Verily,  he  standeth  there  like  the  angel  of  death. 

ILDIBAD. 

Whether  angel  or  devil,  it  is  the  same  for  me.     (The 
shout  of  enthusiasm  rises  anew  and  approaches  the  tent.) 

EIGHTH  SCENE. 
THE  SAME.     THE  KING  (with  flaming  eyes,  pale  yet 

calm). 

TEJA 

Are  the  weapons  in  order? — Ah,  'tis  thou,  Bishop! 

BISHOP. 
King,  my  King! 

[27] 


TE  JA 

TEJA. 

Surely,  thou  shall  now  be  driven  to  seek  another  flock, 
Bishop.  Wilt  thou  but  give  me  thy  blessing,  pray  give 
it  quickly.  .  .  .  Theodemir  is  about  to  come. 

BISHOP. 

And  dost  thou  know  thyself  to  be  free,  my  son,  from 
the  trembling  of  every  dying  creature  ? 

TEJA. 

Bishop,  I  have  been  a  good  servant  of  thy  church. 
To  dedicate  her  temples,  as  once  Totilas  did,  have  I  not 
been  able;  but  what  there  was  to  kill,  I  have  killed  for 
her  welfare.  Shall  I  perform  a  posture  for  the  blessed 
Arius  ? 

BISHOP. 
My  son,  I  understand  thee  not. 

TEJA. 
For  that  I  am  sorry,  my  father. 

BISHOP. 
And  hast  thou  taken  leave  ? 

TEJA. 

Leave — of  whom  ?     Rather  have  I  a  mind  to  cry  "  wel- 
come";   but  yet  nothing  is  there! 
[28] 


TE  JA 

BISHOP  (indignantly). 
I  speak  of  thy  wife,  Sire. 

TKJA. 

At  this  hour,  I  know  only  men,  Bishop.  Of  wives  I 
know  nothing.  Farewell!  (Enter  THEODEMIB  and  ILDI- 

BAD.) 

BISHOP. 

Farewell — and  God  be  gracious  to  thy  soul! 

TEJA. 

I  thank  thee,  Bishop.  .  .  .  Ah,  there  art  thou,  Theod- 
emir.  (Exit  BISHOP  AGILA.) 

NINTH  SCENE 

TEJA.  THEODEMIR.  ILDIBAD  (in  the  background,  oc- 
cupied with  the  King's  weapons, going  noiselessly  in  and  out). 

TEJA. 
What  are  the  warriors  doing? 

THEODEMIR. 

They  who  have  their  wives  here,  are  gone  to  the  Wagen- 
burg.  .  .  .  There  they  will  surely  eat  and  drink  and  play 
with  their  children. 

TEJA. 

And  is  thy  wife  here  also  ? 

[29] 


TE  JA 

THEODEMIB. 
Yea,  Sire! 

TEJA. 

And  thy  children  ? 

THEODEMIH. 
Two  boys,  Sire! 

TEJA. 
And  thou  didst  not  go  ? 

THEODEMIR. 
I  waited  on  thy  call,  Sire. 

TEJA. 
What  hour  is  it? 

THEODEMIR. 
The  ninth,  Sire. 

TEJA. 

And  what  do  they  who  are  free — the  unmarried,  and  they 
whose  wives  are  not  here? 

THEODEMIR. 
They  lie  by  the  fires  and  are  silent. 

(Exit  ILDIBAD.) 

TEJA. 

See  to  it  that  something  is  brought  to  them  also.     I 
already  ordered  it.     Will  they  sleep  ? 
[30] 


TE  JA 

THEODEMIR. 
No  one  will  sleep. 

TEJA. 
At  midnight,  come  and  fetch  me. 

THEODEMIR. 
Yea,  Sire.     (Makes  as  if  to  go.) 

TEJA  (with  a  shade  of  anxiety). 

Theodemir,  stay!  .  .  .  Thou  hast  always  been  my 
adversary. 

THEODEMIR. 
I  was,  Sire.     For  a  long  time  I  have  ceased  to  be. 

TEJA  (stretches  out  his  arms). 

Come!  (They  hold  each  other  in  a  close  embrace;  then 
they  clasp  hands.)  I  would  fain  hold  thee  here,  but  truly 
thou  must  go  to  thy  wife.  (!LDIBAD  again  enters.)  And 
forget  not  to  have  food  brought  to  those  who  are  gazing 
at  the  fires.  They  should  have  occupation.  Brooding 
profiteth  not  in  such  an  hour. 

THEODEMIR. 
Yea,  Sire.     (Exit.) 

[31] 


TE  JA 

TENTH  SCENE. 
TEJA.     ILDIBAD. 

TEJA. 

Now,  my  old  man,  we  should  have  nothing  further 
to  do  upon  this  earth.  Shall  we  talk  ? 

ILDIBAD. 
Sire,  if  I  might  beg  a  favour  for  myself. 

TEJA. 

Still  favours,  at  this  time  ?  .  .  .  I  believe  thou  wouldst 
flatter  me,  old  companion! 

ILDIBAD. 

Sire,  I  am  old.  My  arm  would  grow  weary  with 
bearing  a  spear,  more  quickly  than  is  good  for  thy  life. 
And  by  my  fault  shouldst  thou  not  fall,  Sire.  ...  If 
no  one  else  sleeps,  think  not  evil  of  me,  and  let  me  sleep 
away  the  two  hours. 

TEJA. 

(With  a  new  gleam  of  deep  anxiety.)     Go,  but  not  far 

away. 

ILDIBAD. 

Surely,  Sire,  I  have  always  lain  as  a  dog  before  thy  tent. 
In  respect  of  that,  on  this  last  night,  nothing  will  be 
changed.  .  .  .  Hast  thou  orders  to  give,  Sire  ? 
[32] 


TE  JA 

TEJA. 
Good-night!     (Exit  ILDIBAD.) 

ELEVENTH  SCENE. 

TEJA.  Afterward  BALTHILDA.  (TEJA  left  alone, 
throws  himself  on  his  couch,  staring  straight  before  him 
with  a  bitter,  wearied  smile.  BALTHILDA  enters  shyly. 
In  one  hand  she  carries  a  basket  containing  meat,  bread, 
and  fruits;  in  the  other,  a  golden  tankard  of  wine.  She 
advances  a  few  steps  toward  the  table.) 

TEJA  (half  rising). 
Who  art  thou  ? 

BALTHILDA  (feebly  and  timidly). 
Knowest  thou  me  not,  King? 

TEJA  (rising  from  his  couch). 

The  torches  burn  dimly.  .  .  .  Thy  voice  I  have  heard 
before !  .  .  .  What  wilt  thou  of  me  ? 

BALTHILDA. 
I  am  indeed  thy  wife,  King. 

TEJA  (after  a  silence). 

And  what  wilt  thou  of  me  ? 
[33] 


TE  JA 

BALTHILDA. 

My  mother  sendeth  me.  I  am  to  bring  thee  food  and 
wine.  The  others  eat  and  drink,  and  so  my  mother 
saith (She  stops.) 

TEJA. 

How  didst  thou  enter  here?  .  .  .  Did  not  the  watch 
forbid  thee  to  enter? 

BALTHILDA  (draiving  herself  up). 
I  am  the  Queen,  Sire. 

TEJA. 
Yea,  verily.     And  Ildibad,  what  said  he  ? 

BALTHILDA. 

Thy  old  spearbearer  lay  and  slept.  I  stepped  across 
him,  Sire. 

TEJA. 

I  thank  thee,  Balthilda.  ...  I  am  not  hungry.  I 
thank  thee.  (Silence.  BALTHILDA  stands  and  looks 
tearfully  at  him.) 

TEJA. 

I  see,  thou  hast  still  a  request  to  make  of  me.  I  pray 
thee,  speak! 

[34] 


TE  JA 

BALTHILDA. 

My  King,  if  I  return  home  with  a  well-filled  basket, 
then  shall  I  be  mocked  by  all  the  women.  .  .  .  And  the 
men  shall  say 

TEJA  (smiling). 
And  what  shall  the  men  say  ? 

BALTHILDA. 

He  esteemeth  her  so  little  that — he  consenteth  not  to 
take  food  from  her  hand. 

TEJA. 

On  my  word,  I  assure  thee,  Balthilda,  the  men  have 
other  things  to  think  on  ...  yet  nevertheless  ...  re- 
proach thou  shalt  not  suffer  through  me.  Set  thy  bas- 
ket there.  .  .  .  Have  ye  still  much  of  such  things  ? 

i 

BALTHILDA. 

Sire,  these  two  weeks  have  my  mother  and  I  and  the 
women  about  us  put  aside  the  best  of  our  share — flour 
and  fruits — and  the  fowls  have  we  not  killed  till  this  very 
day. 

TEJA. 

Then  indeed  must  ye  have  been  mightily  hungry,  ye 
women  ? 

[35] 


TE  JA 

BALTHILDA. 
Ah,  it  hath  done  us  no  hurt,  Sire.  ...  It  was  for  a  feast. 

TEJA. 

In  truth?  Ye  believed  we  should  celebrate  a  feast 
to-day  ? 

BALTHILDA. 
Well  ...  is  it  then  not  a  feast,  Sire  ? 

TEJA. 

(7*  silent  and  bites  his  nether  lip,  examining  her  fur- 
tively.) Wilt  thou  not  be  seated,  Balthilda  ?  ...  I 
should  not  yet  let  thee  go  home!  That  too  would  be  a 
reproach,  would  it  not? 

(BALTHILDA  is  silent  and  looks  down.) 

TEJA. 
And  if  I  bade  thee,  wouldst  thou  wish  to  stay  ? 

BALTHILDA. 

Sire,  how  should  a  wife  not  wish  to  stay  beside  her  hus- 
band? 

TEJA. 

Hast  thou  then  the  feeling  in  thy  heart,  that  I — am — 
thy — husband  ? 

[36] 


TE  JA 

BALTHILDA. 

Indeed,  how  could  it  be  otherwise?  The  Bishop  hath 
joined  us  together. 

TEJA. 
And  wert  thou  glad  when  he  did  it  ? 

BALTHILDA. 
Yea.  .  .  .  Nay,  I  was  not  glad  then. 

TEJA. 
Why  not  ? 

BALTHILDA  (with  a  bright  glance). 
Perhaps  because,  because  ...  I  was  afraid,  Sire,  and 

I  was  praying. 

TEJA. 

What  didst  thou  pray  ? 

BALTHILDA. 

That  God  would  grant  to  me,  his  humble  handmaid,  the 
power  to  bring  thee  the  happiness  which  thou  needest, 
and  which  thou  awaitest  from  me. 

TEJA. 
Which  I  from  thee — that  didst  thou  pray  ? 

BALTHILDA. 

Sire,  may  I  not  offer  thee  the  food,  and  the  wine  ? 
[37] 


TEJA 

TEJA. 

Nay,  nay!  .  .  .  Hearken,  Balthilda:  without,  by  our 
fires,  are  warriors — they  are  hungry — I  am  not  hungry. 

BALTHILDA. 

Sire,  give  them  what  thou  pleasest  .  .  .  give  them 
everything! 

TEJA. 

I  thank  thee,  Balthilda.  (Raising  the  curtain.)  Ho 
there,  watch !  Come  in,  but  prudently  so  as  not  to  wake  the 
old  man.  .  .  .  (Watcher  enters.)  Here,  take  this  basket 
with  food  and  wine,  and  divide  it  honestly.  .  .  .  Say  your 
Queen  sends  it. 

WATCHER. 

May  I  thank  the  Queen,  Sire  ? 

(TEJA  nods.     WATCHER  shakes  her  hand  heartily.    Exit.) 

TEJA. 
Go — and  bring  me  to  eat! 

BALTHILDA  (perplexed). 
Sire — why — mockest  thou — me  ? 

TEJA. 

Dost  thou  then  not  understand  me?    If  thou  wilt  be 
my  wife,  thou  must  offer  me  my  property,  not  thine! 
[38] 


TEJA 

BALTHILDA. 
Is  not  all  of  mine  thy  property,  Sire  ? 

TEJA. 

Hm!  (Silence.  He  takes  her  hands.)  Call  me  not 
Sire  and  call  me  not  King.  .  .  .  Knowest  thou  not  my 

name? 

BALTHILDA. 
Thy  name  is  Teja! 

TEJA. 
Say  it  yet  once  again! 

BALTHILDA  (softly,  turning  away). 
Teja! 

TEJA. 
Is  the  name  so  strange  to  thee  ? 

(BALTHILDA  shakes  her  head.) 

TEJA. 
Then  why  hesitate  ? 

BALTHILDA. 

Not  for  that,  Sire!  Since  I  knew  that  I  was  to  serve 
thee  as  thy  wife,  I  have  often  named  thee  by  day  and 
in  the  night.  Only  I  never  said  it  aloud.  .  .  . 

TEJA. 

And  before  thou  knewest  it,  what  was  then  thy  thought  ? 
[39] 


TEJA 

BALTHILDA. 
Sire,  why  dost  thou  ask  ? 

TEJA. 
And  why  dost  thou  not  answer? 

BALTHILDA. 

Sire,  when  I  heard  of  thy  bloody  commands,  and  the 
others  feared  thee — then  I  often  thought:  How  unhappy 
must  he  be  that  the  destiny  of  the  Goths  compelleth  him 
to  such  deeds! 

TEJA. 
That  hast  thou  thought  ? — That  hast  thou ? 

BALTHILDA. 
Sire,  was  it  wrong  that  I  should  think  it  ? 

TEJA. 

Thou  hadst  never  seen  my  face,  and  thou  didst  under- 
stand me  ?  And  they  who  were  around  me,  the  wise  men 
and  tried  soldiers,  they  understood  me  not!  .  .  .  Who 
art  thou,  woman  ?  Who  hath  taught  thee  to  read  my 
heart  ? — Thee,  thee  alone  of  all  ? 

BALTHILDA. 

Sire — I 

[40] 


TEJA 

TEJA. 

All  shuddered  and  muttering  hid  themselves  from  me 
in  corners — and  saw  not  the  way,  the  only  way  which 
haply  might  still  have  saved  them.  When  the  butcher's 
knife  was  already  at  their  throat,  they  still  told  themselves 
some  tale  of  compromise.  And  then  came  the  crafty 
Greeks,  measured  themselves  with  them,  and  killed  them 
one  by  one.  Thus  perished  the  hundred  thousand.  And 
I  wrapped  myself  in  grief  and  anger — I  cast  hope  away 
from  me  like  a  bloody  rag,  I  sprang  into  the  breach  with 
scornful  laughter.  I  sowed  horrors  about  me,  when  my 
own  heart  was  convulsed  with  horror  of  myself.  I  have 
not  once  been  drunk  with  all  the  blood.  I  have  killed, 
killed,  and  still  knew  all  the  while:  it  is  in  vain!  (He 
sinks  to  his  seat  overcome  with  anguish,  and  stares  straight 
before  him.) 

BALTHILDA  (with  a  shy  attempt  at  a  caress). 
My  poor  dear  King!  Dear  Teja! 

TEJA. 

(Raises  his  head  and  looks  confusedly  around  him.)  My 
God,  what  do  I  here  ?  .  .  .  Why  do  I  tell  all  this  to  thee  ? 
Thou  must  not  despise  me  because  I  am  such  a  babbler. 
.  .  .  Nor  must  thou  believe  that  it  is  aught  of  remorse 
that  cbmpels  me  to  this  confession.  .  .  .  Perhaps  I  feel 
[41] 


TE  JA 

pity  for  the  victims,  but  my  conscience  stands  high  above 
all  that!  .  .  .  Far  higher  than  my  poor  Gothic  throne. 
.  .  .  Look  not  upon  me  so.  ...  There  is  in  thy  eye  some- 
thing that  compels  me  to  reveal  my  inmost  thought  to  thee. 
.  .  .  Who  hath  endued  thee  with  this  power  over  me? 
.  .  .  Begone!  .  .  .  Nay,  stay  .  .  .  Stay!  I  wish  to  tell 
thee  yet  something,  quite  in  secret,  before  thou  goest.  .  .  . 
Besides,  I  should  not  cry  out  so,  otherwise  the  watch  may 
hear.  .  .  .  Incline  thine  ear  to  me.  Never  yet  have  I 
confessed  it  to  any  man,  nor  have  I  held  it  possible  that 
I  should  ever  confess  it.  ...  I  bear  an  envy  within  me 
which  devoureth  my  heart,  whenever  I  think — knowest 
thou  toward  whom?  .  .  .  Toward  Totilas.  .  .  .  Yea, 
toward  Totilas  in  his  grave.  .  .  .  They  called  him  the 
"shining"  Totilas  and  their  affection  still  cleaveth  to  him 
to-day.  .  .  .  Their  eyes  still  flash  when  they  even  think 

of  him. 

BALTHILDA. 

Ah,  Sire,  how  thou  dost  fret  thyself! 

TEJA  (anxiously). 
Didst  thou  ever  see  him  ? 

BALTHILDA. 
Never. 

TEJA. 

God  be  thanked!    For  hadst  thou  ever  seen  him  as 
I  saw  him  on  the  morning  of  the  battle  in  which  he  fell 
[42] 


TE  JA 

.  .  .  arrayed  in  golden  armour  .  .  .  and  the  white  steed 
pranced  beneath  him,  and  his  yellow  locks  streamed 
like  sunlight  about  him.  And  he  laughed  the  foe  in 
the  face.  .  .  .  Laughed  like  a  child!  .  .  .  Ah,  laughing 
to  die  like  him! 

BALTHILDA. 

His  lot  was  easy,  Sire!  He  went  from  hence,  but  left 
to  thee  as  an  inheritance  the  half-destroyed  kingdom.  .  .  . 
How  shouldst  thou  then  have  laughed  ? 

TEJA  (eagerly). 

Is  it  not  so  ? — Is  it  not  so  ? — How  .  .  .  Ah,  that  doeth 
good!  (Stretching  himself.)  Ah,  thou  doest  me  good! 

BALTHILDA. 
How  proud  thou  makest  me,  Sire! 

TEJA. 

But  hadst  thou  seen  him  and  compared  him  to  me,  thou 
wouldst  spit  upon  me! 

BALTHILDA  (fervently). 
I  should  have  seen  only  thee,  Sire — dear,  dear  Sire! 

(TEJA  looks  askance  at  her,  shyly  and  distrustfully,  then 
walks  silently  to  the  left,  sinks  down  before  the  seat  on  the 
throne,  and  burying  his  face  in  the  chair,  weeps  bitterly.) 
[43] 


TE  JA 

BALTHILDA. 

(Follows  him  shyly  and  kneels  down  beside  him.)  Teja, 
beloved,  if  I  hurt  thee,  pardon  me! 

TEJA  (rises  and  grasps  her  arm). 
Tell  it  to  no  one! 

BALTHILDA. 
What,  Sire  ? 

TEJA. 
That  thou  hast  seen  me  weep!    Swear  it  to  me! 

BALTHILDA. 

It  hath  been  told  me  that  I  am  now  even  as  a  piece 
of  thy  body — and  of  thy  soul  also !  .  .  .  Wherefore  should 
I  swear? 

TEJA. 

If  thou  art  a  piece  of  my  body,  then  come  nearer  to  me, 
that  thou  mayst  not  see  my  tears. 

BALTHILDA. 

Let  me  dry  them  for  thee!  See,  for  this  cause  am  I 
here. 

TEJA. 

Ah,  'tis  well  with  me.  ...  I  must  indeed  have  died 
of  shame,  for  never  yet  hath  a  Gothic  man  been  seen  to 
weep.    Even  when  we  buried  Totilas,  we  wept  not.  .  .  . 
[44] 


TE  JA 

Yet  I  am  not  ashamed.  ...  If  I  but  knew  why  sud- 
denly it  is  so  well  with  me!  ...  Balthilda,  I  will  tell 
thee  something.  But  thou  must  not  laugh  me  to  scorn. 

BALTHILDA. 
How  should  I  laugh  at  thee,  beloved  ? 

TEJA. 
I  am  hungry. 

BALTHILDA   (springing  up  in  surprise). 
Alas,  surely  thou  hast  given  everything  away! 

TEJA. 

Oh,  by  no  means!  Go  just  over  there,  wilt  thou? 
(She  obeys.)  Behind  my  couch — seest  thou  the  fire- 
place ? 

BALTHILDA. 

Here  where  the  ashes  lie  ? 

TEJA. 
There  standeth  a  chest  ? 

BALTHILDA. 
Yea. 

TEJA. 

Wilt  thou  open  the  lid  ? 

BALTHILDA. 
Ah,  it  is  heavy! 

[45] 


TE  JA 

TEJA. 

Now  feel  within!  Deep,  deep!  .  .  .  There  Ildibad 
the  old  miser — well  ? 

BALTHILDA  (disappointedly). 
A  couple  of  bread  crusts;  is  that  all,  Sire  ? 

TEJA. 
There  is  indeed  nothing  more. 

BALTHILDA. 

May  I  not  then  go  quickly  over  to  the  Wagenburg? 
.  .  .  Perhaps  still  .  .  . 

TEJA. 

Oh  nay.  .  .  .  They  themselves  need  the  fragments. 
.  .  .  Bring  that  hither!  As  brothers  we  shall  share  it — 
eh  ?  And  then  there  is  sufficient  for  both.  Wilt  thou  ? 

BALTHILDA. 
Yea.     (She  sits  beside  him.') 

TEJA. 

So,  now  give  to  me!  Ah,  that  is  good  to  the  taste! 
Is  it  not  good  to  the  taste  ?  But  ah,  thou  also  must  eat. 

BALTHILDA. 

I  fear  there  is  not  enough  for  thee. 
[46] 


TEJA 

TEJA. 

Nay,  that  is  against  the  agreement.  .  .  .  So.  ...  Is  it 
not  good  to  the  taste  ? 

BALTHILDA. 
To  me  nothing  hath  ever  tasted  half  so  sweet. 

TEJA. 

Pray  come  nearer  to  me  ...  I  will  take  the  crumbs 
from  thy  lap  .  .  .  So — why  is  it  that  suddenly  I  am 
hungry  ?  See,  now  we  celebrate  our  marriage  feast. 

BALTHILDA. 

And  better  than  those  without,  with  meat  and  wine — 
do  we  not  ? 

TEJA. 
Well,  did  I  not  tell  thee  ?  .  .  .  But  thou  hast  a  bad  seat! 

BALTHILDA. 
Nay,  I  am  seated  well! 

TEJA. 
Come,  stand  up!    Pray,  stand  up! 

BALTHILDA  (rising). 
Well? 

TEJA 
Sit  there,  just  above! 

[47] 


TE  JA 

BALTHILDA  (terrified). 
Upon  the  throne — for  God's  sake — how  dare  I ? 

TEJA. 
Art  thou  not  then  the  Queen  ? 

BALTHILDA  (decidedly). 
If  I  must  sit  there  in  earnest !     But  in  jest — nay ! 

TEJA. 

Ah,  the  stupid  bit  of  wood!  (He  hurls  down  the  throne.} 
At  least  it  should  be  of  use  for  something!  ...  So  now 

lean  against  it! 

BALTHILDA. 

Beloved,  doest  thou  justly? 

TEJA  (surprised). 

Nay!  (He  sets  the  throne  up  again,  leads  her  to  her 
former  place,  and  places  her  head  against  the  seat.)  There 
indeed  thou  art  well  seated — yea!  .  .  .  And  we  trespass 
not  against  this  trash.  If  the  Bishop  had  seen  that — he, 
ha,  ha,  ha!  Wait,  I  will  eat  again! 

BALTHILDA. 

There,  take! 

TEJA. 

Still — remain  quite  still!     I  shall  fetch  it  for  myself. 
(He  kneels  upon  the  podium  beside  her.)     Now   I   am 
[48] 


TE  JA 

quite  upon  my  knees  before  thee.  .  .  .  What  is  there  that 
we  do  not  learn!  .  .  .  Thou  art  beautiful!  ...  I  never 
knew  my  mother! 

BALTHILDA. 
Never  knew! 

TEJA. 

Never  had  a  sister.  .  .  .  No  one.  .  .  .  Never  played 
in  my  life.  .  .  .  That  I  am  surely  learning  last  not  least. 

BALTHILDA. 
Why  last  not  least  ? 

TEJA. 

Ask  not — nay?  Ah  thou,  thou!  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Pray 
eat!  Bite  from  mine — yea?  Obediently — thou  knowest 
what  the  Bishop  said  ? 

BALTHILDA   (bites  and  then  springs  up). 
But  wilt  thou  not  also  drink  ? 

TEJA. 

Ah,  surely !  Bring  me  only  the  milk  jar !  Bring  me  only 
the  milk  jar.  .  .  .  Thou  knowest  the  one  that  Ildibad 
told  us  of. 

BALTHILDA    (who  has  walked  across). 

Is  this  the  one  ? 

[49] 


TE  JA 

TEJA  (rising). 
That  is  indeed  it.     But  thou  also  must  drink. 

BALTHILDA. 
Is  it  fitting  so  ? 

TEJA. 
I  know  not.     It  should  be! 

BALTHILDA. 

So  be  it,  then.  (She  drinks  and  shakes  with  laughter.") 
Ugh!  That  hath  a  bad  taste. 

TEJA. 

Give  it  to  me.  (He  drinks.)  Nay!  (He  drinks 
again.)  Go!  .  .  .  Art  thou  then  such  a  despiser  of 
nourishment  ?  .  .  .  Yea,  who  art  thou  then  ?  And  how 
comest  thou  hither?  And  just  what  wilt  thou  of  me? 

BALTHILDA. 
I  will  love  thee! 

TEJA. 

Thou — my  wife!  Thou  .  .  .  (They  fly  into  one  an- 
other's arms.  Softly.)  And  wilt  thou  not  kiss  me  ? 

(BALTHILDA  shakes  her  head,  ashamed.) 

TEJA. 
Why  not  ? 

[50] 


TE  JA 

(BALTHILDA  again  shakes  her  head.) 

TEJA. 
Yet  tell  me,  why  not  ? 

BALTHILDA. 
I  will  tell  thee  in  thine  ear. 

TEJA. 
Well? 

BALTHILDA. 
Thou  hast  a  downy  beard.* 

TEJA. 

(Wipes  his  month  in  terror,  then  in  assumed  anger.) 
What  have  I  ?  Knowest  thou  not  who  I  am  ?  How  then 
dost  thou  suffer  thyself  to  tell  thy  King  he — say  it  yet 
once  more!  I  will  but  see. 

BALTHILDA  (laughing). 
A — downy — beard . 

TEJA  (laughing). 
Now,  wait! 

*  Milchbart — literally  "  milky  beard." 


[51] 


TE  JA 

TWELFTH  SCENE. 
THE  SAME.     ILDIBAD. 

ILDIBAD. 

Sire,  thou  calledst?  (He  stands  rigid  with  astonish- 
ment, and  is  about  to  retire  silently.) 

TEJA. 

(Collects  himself  abruptly.  He  appears  to  wake  out  of 
a  dream.  His  manners  and  bearing  revert  to  the  gloomy 
energy  which  previously  had  the  ascendency.)  Stop, 
stay,  what  happens  without  ? 

ILDIBAD. 

The  warriors  return  from  the  Wagenburg,  sire,  and 
most  of  the  wives  come  with  them. 

TEJA. 
Are  the  leaders  assembled  ? 

ILDIBAD. 
Yea,  Sire. 

TEJA. 
They  might  have  patience  for  a  moment  more. 

ILDIBAD. 
Yea,  Sire. 

[52] 


TE  JA 

TEJA. 

For  I  also  have  a  wife. 

ILDIBAD. 
Yea,  verily,  Sire. 

[Exit.] 

THIRTEENTH  SCENE. 
TEJA.       BALTHILDA. 

BALTHILDA. 
Teja,  beloved,  what  happeneth  to  thee? 

TEJA. 

(Remains  standing  before  her  and  takes  her  head  in 
his  hands.}  To  me,  it  is  as  if  in  this  hour  we  had  strayed 
hand  in  hand  through  a  whole  world  of  joy  and  sorrow. 
That  disappeareth — all  disappeareth.  I  am  again  the 
— I  was — nay,  I  am  not  he. — But  be  thou  high  above  all 
the  women,  the  Queen  .  .  .  Wilt  thou  ? 

BALTHILDA. 
Sire,  what  dost  thou  require  of  me  ? 

TEJA. 
Thou  wilt  not  entreat  and  wilt  not  cry  out  ? 

BALTHILDA. 
Nay,  Sire. 

[53] 


TEJA 

TEJA. 
The  day  draweth  nigh.     Before  us  standeth  death. 

BALTHILDA. 

Sire,  I  understand  thee  not.    None  can  attack  us,  and 
until  the  ships  come 

TEJA. 
The  ships  come  never  more. 

(BALTHILDA  strokes  herself  on  the  cheeks,  and  then  stands 
motionless.) 

TEJA. 
But  we  men  are  going  forth  upon  the  field,  to  fight. 

BALTHILDA. 
That  can  ye  not  do — that  is  surely — impossible. 

TEJA. 

We  must.     Art  thou  the  Queen,  and  perceivest  not  that 
we  must  ? 

BALTHILDA. 
Yea — I — per — ceive — it. 

TEJA. 

The  King  fights  in  the  foremost  rank,  and  we  shall  see 
each  other  no  more  alive.  .  .  .  Knowest  thou  that  ? 
[54] 


TE  JA 

BALTHILDA. 

Yea,  I  know  it!  ...  (Silence.  They  look  at  each 
other.') 

TEJA. 

Thy  blessing  will  I  have  upon  the  way.  (He  sinks 
on  his  knees  before  her;  she  lays  her  hands  upon  his  head, 
bends  down  to  him,  trembling,  and  kisses  him  on  the  fore- 
head.) 

TEJA. 

(Springs  up  and  tears  back  the  curtain.)  Enter,  who 
waiteth  there! 

FOURTEENTH  SCENE. 

THE  SAME.  AMALABERGA,  EURIC,  AGILA,  ATHA- 
NARIC,  THEODEMIR,  and  other  leaders. 

AMALABERGA. 

King,  I  sent  my  child  to  thee.  ...  I  hear  ye  men  have 
to  act.  .  .  .  Give  her  again  to  me. 

TEJA. 

Here  hast  thou  thy  child!  (Exeunt  AMALABERGA 
and  BALTHILDA.) 

[55] 


TE  JA 

FIFTEENTH  SCENE. 
THE  SAME.      Except    AMALABERGA    and   BALTHILDA. 

TEJA. 

(Stares  after  them,  rouses  himself,  and  perceives  the 
Bishop.)  Bishop,  I  treated  thee  basely  this  evening. 
Forgive  me  and  have  my  thanks,  for  surely  I  also  know 
why  the  Goth  loveth  death.  .  .  .  (Grasps  his  sword.) 
Now  be  ye  ready  ?  Have  the  farewells  been  said  ? 

THEODEMIR. 

Sire,  we  have  disobeyed  thy  command.  Which  of 
our  wives  betrayed  it,  and  which  of  us  told  it,  that  cannot 
be  determined.  Enough,  they  all  know  it. 

TEJA. 
And  then  have  cried  ah  and  woe? 

THEODEMIR. 

Sire,  they  have  silently  kissed  the  blessing  of  death 
upon  our  brows. 

TEJA  (exclaims  half  to  himself). 

They  also!     (Aloud.)     Truly  we  are  a  nation  of  kings. 
It  is  our  misfortune.     So  come!     (He  strides  to  the  back- 
ground.    The  others  follow.     Amid  the  noisy  cries  of  the 
people  greeting  the  King,  the  curtain  falls.) 
[56] 


n 
FRITZCHEN 

A    DRAMA     IN     ONE    ACT 


PERSONS 

HERE  VON  DROSSE,  Major  (retired),  Lord  of  the  Manor. 

HELENE,  his  wife. 

FRITZ,  their  son. 

AGNES,  niece  of  Frau  von  Drosse. 

VON  HALLERPFORT,  lieutenant. 

STEPHAN,  overseer. 

WILHELM,  servant. 


[58] 


FRITZCHEN 

The  action  takes  place  on  Herr  von  Drosse's  estate. 
Time,  the  present. 

The  scene  represents  a  drawing-room  on  the  ground 
floor.  In  the  rear  are  wide  glass  doors  which  stand  open, 
and  permit  a  view  of  the  terrace  and  splendid  park  lying 
beyond.  Windows  to  the  right  and  left.  On  the  right 
side,  a  sofa  with  table  and  chairs;  on  the  left,  a  secretary 
with  writing  materials.  Handsome  old-fashioned  decora- 
tions, pictures  of  battles,  portraits  in  oval  frames,  racing 
prints,  etc.  The  terrace  is  sheltered  by  a  broad  awning 
which  slightly  subdues  the  glare  of  the  bright  summer 
afternoon. 

FIRST  SCENE. 

WILHELM  (servant  over  sixty,  in  half  livery,  is  en- 
gaged in  arranging  the  samovar  for  the  afternoon  coffee). 
AGNES  (extremely  slender,  nervous,  with  traces  of  mental 
distress — twenty  years  of  age — blonde  hair  smoothed  on  the 
temples,  light  muslin  goivn,  a  garden  hat  in  her  hand — 
enters  from  the  terrace). 

[59] 


FRITZCHEN 

AGNES. 
Wilhelm,  has  the  postman  been  here? 

WILHELM  (sighing). 
Yes,  yes,  he  was  here. 

AGNES. 
Where  are  the  things  ? 

WILHELM. 
They  are  on  the  table,  Fraulein. 

AGNES. 

(Goes  quickly  to  the  table  and  with  feverish  haste  looks 
through  the  small  pile  of  newspapers  and  letters  lying 
there.)  Again,  nothing! 

WILHELM. 

Yes,  indeed — and  this  is  the  seventh  day.  Ah,  it  is 
really  heart-breaking. 

AGNES. 

Are  your  master  and  mistress  still  taking  their  after- 
noon nap  ? 

WILHELM. 

I  have  just  heard  the  Major.  He  will  be  here  directly 
— there  he  is  now! 

[60] 


FRITZCHEN 

SECOND  SCENE. 

THE  SAME.  MAJOR  VON  DROSSE  (about  fifty,  tall, 
broad-shouldered,  rather  stout.  Dark-grayish  full  beard 
parted  in  the  middle,  waving  right  and  left  over  his  shoulders. 
In  the  full,  well-browned  face  with  flashing  eyes  and  bushy 
eyebrows,  there  are  energy  and  abundant  vitality,  con- 
trolled by  the  self-command  and  chivalric  manner  of  an  old 
officer.  Brief  in  speech,  domineering,  but  never  without 
a  gleam  of  inner  kindness). 

MAJOR. 
Afternoon,  Agnes! 

AGNES. 
Afternoon,  uncle! 

MAJOR. 

(Goes  to  the  table,  examines  the  letters,  sits  down  and  looks 
straight  before  him  for  a  little  while.)  Wilhelm! 

WILHELM. 
What  does  the  Major  wish  ? 

MAJOR. 
Stephan  is  to  come  at  once  to  the  castle. 

WILHELM. 

Very  well,  Major.     (Exit.) 

[61] 


FRITZCHEN 

MAJOR. 

Agnes,  my  child,  just  listen  to  me  ...  You  are  a 
reasonable  creature  .  .  .  One  that  I  can  talk  to.  ...  So 
the  rascal  has  again  not  written.  He  should  have  come 
to  us,  day  before  yesterday.  Has  made  no  excuses — doesn't 
write — nothing.  That  has  not  happened  during  the  six 
years  that  he  has  been  away  from  home.  I  ordered  him 
most  strictly  to  send  a  letter,  or  at  least  a  card,  every 
day — for  with  her  illness,  your  aunt  must  be  guarded 
against  the  slightest  anxiety  or  excitement.  He  knows 
that,  and  moreover  has  always  observed  it  conscien- 
tiously. I  can't  any  longer  be  responsible  for  your 
aunt  and  her  weakened  heart.  Unless  we  use  every 
means  to  keep  her  in  her — visionary  life,  she  will  go  to 
pieces. 

AGNES. 
Uncle! 

MAJOR. 

We  must  make  up  our  minds  to  that,  Agnes.  Really, 
I  do  what  I  can.  Yesterday  I  even  forged  a  telegram  to 
her — you  know  that,  eh!  I  did  intend  to  write  to  his  in- 
timate friend  Hallerpfort,  but  thought  better  of  it.  I 
shall  drive  into  town  directly  after  dark.  Without  your 
aunt  knowing  it,  of  course — for  now,  during  the  harvest, 
that  would  upset  her  still  more.  So  you  will  stay  all 
[62] 


FRITZCHEN 

night  with  her,  and  er — well,  the  rest  I  will  arrange  with 

Stephan. 

AGNES. 

Very  well,  dear  uncle. 

MAJOR. 

Just  come  here,  girl,  look  me  in  the  face  .  .  .  We  two 
know  each  other  and    .  .  .  Eh? 

(AGNES  casts  down  her  eyes.} 

MAJOR. 

Now  see,  I  know  very  well  that  for  two  years  you  have 
been  secretly  corresponding  with  Fritz. 

AGNES. 
Uncle!     (Presses  her  hands  to  her  face.) 

MAJOR. 

There,  that  will  do,  that  will  do,  that  will  do.  .  .  .  You 
can  well  believe,  if  I  had  been  opposed  to  it  on  principle, 
I  should  have  long  since  put  an  end  to  the  business, 
shouldn't  I?  ...  But  there  are  things — well,  in  short, 
that  you  don't  understand.  Well,  I  should  not  have 
begun  about  the  matter  to-day,  but  necessity  knows  no 
law,  eh  ?  And  if  I  go  to  see  him  this  evening,  I  don't 
wish  to  grope  altogether  in  the  dark.  .  .  .  So — on  the 
basis  of  what  has  just  been  said — have  you,  perhaps,  by 
any  chance  had  a  letter  from  him  ? 
[63] 


FRITZCHEN 

AGNES. 
No,  uncle! 

MAJOR. 
Hm! 

AGNES  (hesitating,  embarrassed). 
For  some  time  we  have  not  corresponded. 

MAJOR. 
So?— Ho,  ho  .  .  .!— Who  is  to  blame  for  that? 

AGNES. 

Ah,  let  us  not  talk  about  that,  uncle.     But  from  another 
quarter,  I  have  had  news  of  him. 

MAJOR. 
When? 

AGNES. 
Yesterday. 

MAJOR. 
And  that  you  have ? 

AGNES. 

(Taking  a  letter  from  her  pocket.)     Please  read — and  I 
think  you  will  not  reproach  me. 

MAJOR  (unfolding  the  letter). 

Ah,  from  the  little  Frohn!     Now  then,  what  does  the 
little  Frohn  write  ?     (Reads,  muttering.)     Lanskis — Stein- 
[64] 


FRITZCHEN 

hof — met  cousin — danced  (aloud).  Indeed,  then  he  could 
dance,  but  not  write,  that  is  a  nice  business — I  should  not 
have  believed  it  of  him  at  all.  ...  (Reads  further,  mut- 
tering.) Eyes  for  the  so-called  beautiful  Frau  von  Lanski 
.  .  .  The  whole  regiment  is  talking  of  it.  ...  Hm!  eh, 
what!  Such  a  goose!  What  things  such  a  goose  does 
cackle!  .  .  .  Regiment  has  other  things  to  bother  itself 
about.  .  .  .  But  such  a  regulation  goose  ...  If  a  young 
lieutenant  like  that  isn't  all  the  time  trotting  after  them. 
And  when  he  once  shows  attention  to  a  lady  who  doesn't 
belong  to  the  regiment  .  .  .  Besides,  the  Lanski  is  nearly 
forty  .  .  .  Such  idiocy!  Then  he  might  at  least — hm — 
hm — eh,  pardon!  Now  then,  what  is  it?  ...  My  poor 
old  girl  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  jealousy  .  .  .  You  have  borne  up 
disgracefully  since  yesterday. 

AGNES. 
I  think  I  have  controlled  myself,  uncle  ? 

MAJOR. 
Yes,  very  true,  girl,  no  one  has  noticed  anything. 

THIRD  SCENE. 

THE  SAME.     WILHELM.      Afterward    STEPHAN,   the 
overseer. 

WILHELM  (entering  from  the  right). 

Herr  Stephan  is  there,  Major. 
[65] 


FRITZCHEN 

MAJOR. 
Come  in! 

(Enter  STEPHAN.) 

Very  well,  my  dear  Stephen,  I  must  drive  into  town 
directly  after  dark.  Unless  I  should  be  detained,  I  shall 
be  here  early  to-morrow  morning — four  and  a  half  and  four 
and  a  half  more  miles — nine  miles.  .  .  .  The  coach  horses 
have  been  exercised  to-day  ? 

STEPHAN. 
Yes,  indeed,  Major. 

MAJOR. 

Which  are  in  better  condition  now,  the  browns  or  the 
whites  ? 

STEPHAN. 

That  I  don't  permit  myself  to  decide,  Major.  They 
have  all  had  it  severely! 

MAJOR. 
Well,  I  will  just  go  and  have  a  look  myself.    Wilhelm — 

cap! 

WILHELM. 

Very  well,  Major.     (Exit  to  the  right.) 

MAJOR. 

And  at  half  after  nine  this  evening,  send  a  message  to 
my  wife  and  have  her  told  that  I  must  stay  all  night  at 
[66] 


FRITZCHEN 

the  brick  kilns — eh,  you  remember  (softly,  looking  around 
at  AGNES)  how  we  managed  it  the  other  times  when  I  was 
out  at  night. 

STEPHAN. 
All  right,  Major. 

MAJOR. 

Where  is  that  fellow  stopping  with  my  cap  ?  (Enter 
WILHELM.)  Where  were  you  hiding,  man  ?  (WILHELM 
hands  him  the  cap.)  And  he  is  tottering  on  his  old  legs! 
What  are  you  tottering  so  for? 

WILHELM. 
Indeed  I  am  not  tottering,  Major. 

MAJOR. 

Well,  come  on,  Stephan!  (Exeunt  MAJOR,  STEPHAN, 
through  the  garden  door.) 

FOURTH  SCENE. 
AGNES.     WILHELM.     Afterward    LIEUTENANT    VON 

HALLERPFORT. 

WILHELM  (softly). 

Fraulein,  just  now  as  I  went  out,  Lieutenant  von  Hal- 

lerpfort  was  standing  there  and  wished  to  speak  with 

Fraulein,  privately.     Neither  the  master  nor  the  mistress 

is  to  know  anything  of  it  .  .  .  God,  Fraulein  is  deadly  pale ! 

[67] 


FRITZCHEN 

AGNES. 

Ask  the  lieutenant  to  come  in,  and  keep  a  lookout,  if 
my  aunt  comes. 

(WILHELM  opens  the  door  on  the  right,  and  disappears 
through  the  door  on  the  left  hand.) 

AGNES. 

(Meeting  the  lieutenant  as  he  enters.)     Herr  von  Hal- 
lerpfort,  what  has  happened  to  Fritz  ? 

HALLERPFORT. 

Nothing,  Fraulein,  not  the  least  thing.  ...  I  am  sur- 
prised that  he  is  not  yet  here. 

AGNES  (rising  joyfully). 
Ah!     (With  a  sigh  of  relief.)     Ha! 

HALLERPFORT. 
I  beg  pardon  a  thousand  times  if  I  startled  you. 

AGNES. 
Will  you  please  take  a  seat. 

HALLERPFORT. 
Thank  you,  most  humbly!     (They  are  seated.)     Your 

uncle  and  aunt,  I  hope,  will  not 

[68] 


FRITZCHEN 

AGNES. 

Uncle  has  just  gone  to  the  stables,  and  aunt's  coming 
will  be  announced  to  us. 

HALLERPFORT. 
How  is  your  aunt  ? 

AGNES. 

Oh,  I  thank  you,  much  as  usual. — Herr  von  Haller- 
pfort,  be  frank  with  me:     What  is  this  all  about? 

HALLERPFORT. 

Oh,  absolutely  nothing  of  any  consequence.     A  little 
surprise — nothing  further — nothing  further! 

AGNES. 

To  be  sure,  if  he  is  really  on  his  way  here — didn't  you 
ride  here  together? 

HALLERPFORT. 

No,  I  came  by  the  way  of  the  levee,  and  thought  to  over- 
take him.     He  will  have  ridden  by  the  highway. 

AGNES. 
Then  what  is  the  object  of  this  secrecy  ? 

HALLERPFORT. 

That  will  soon  be  cleared  up,  Fraulein.  ...  At  this 
moment,  in  Fritz's  interest,  I  have  to  ask  a  great  favour  of 
[69] 


FRITZCHEN 

you.  ...  It  is  now  (takes  out  his  watch)  three  forty-five 
o'clock.  At  four  o'clock — let  us  say  five  minutes  after  four 
— even  if  we  take  into  account  some  unforeseen  delay — 
yes — he  must  be  here.  .  .  .  How  long  does  it  take  to  go 
to  the  village  to  Braun's  inn  ? 

AGNES. 

Ten  minutes — that  is,  by  a  short  cut  through  the  park, 
about  five. 

HALLERPFORT. 

Thank  you  most  humbly.  Then  will  you  have  the 
great  kindness  to  reckon  by  your  watch  a  half  hour  from 
the  moment  when  he  comes  in  here,  and  then  send  me 
a  message  to  Braun's  where  I  am  stopping  ? 

AGNES. 

At  Braun's?  I  think  you  know,  Herr  von  Hallerpfort, 
that  this  house 

HALLERPFORT. 

Oh,  certainly — that  I  know!  ...  I  only  made  the 
mistake  of  putting  my  horse  at  the  entrance  to  Braun's, 
ana  as  he  doesn't  belong  to  me,  it  is  my  duty  to  look  after 
him. 

AGNES. 

And  all  that  is  the  truth  ? 

[70] 


FRITZCHEN 

HALLERPFORT. 
Absolutely. 

AGNES. 

I  should  not  be  so  persistent — forgive  me  for  it — but 
here  we  have  all  been  so  distressed  about  him.  For  nearly 
a  week,  we  have  sat  and  waited  for  news.  .  .  .  Tell  me 

truly. 

WILHELM  (entering  at  the  left). 

Fraulein,  your  aunt. 

HALLERPFORT  (springing  up). 
Good-bye,  then!     And  be  reassured,  it  is  all  about  a 

joke — about 

AGNES. 

If  only  your  face  were  not  so  serious. 

HALLERPFORT. 
Oh,  that — that  is  deceptive.     (Exit  quickly  to  the  right.) 

FIFTH  SCENE. 

AGNES.  FRAU  VON  DROSSE  (extremely  delicate  in 
appearance,  forty,  suffering — with  girlish  complexion — 
gay,  absent  smile — dreamy,  gentle  expression — gliding, 
careful  walk — breathing  deeply). 

AGNES. 

(Hastens  to  meet  her,  to  support   her.)     Forgive   me, 
aunt,  that  I  did  not  go  to  fetch  you. 
[71] 


FRITZCHEN 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 

No  matter,  darling  ...  I  could  manage.  ...  Is  there 
any  news? 

(AGNES  shakes  her  head.} 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE  (sighing). 
Ah,  yes. 

AGNES. 

Do  you  know,  aunt,  I  have  a  sort  of  presentiment  that 
he  will  soon  be  here  himself. 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 
Yes,  if  things  happened  according  to  presentiments! 

SIXTH  SCENE. 
THE  SAME.     MAJOR.     WILHELM. 

MAJOR. 

Well,  darling,  are  you  in  good  spirits?  .  .  .  No!  .  .  . 
Well,  what  is  it  then  ?  What  is  it  then  ? 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 
Ah,  Richard,  you  surely  know. 

MAJOR. 

Oh,  nonsense!  Don't  worry  yourself  uselessly.  .  .  . 
A  young  badger  like  that — service  and  casino  and  what 
not!  I  used  not  to  do  any  better  myself  .  .  .  Eh,  Wil- 

[72] 


FRITZCHEN 

helm,  that  you  will  have  remembered  even  in  your  boozi- 
ness  ?     Many  a  time  I  didn't  write  for  four  weeks. 

WILHELM  (who  is  handing  the  coffee). 
Yes,  Major. 

MAJOR. 
And  were  you  at  all  worried  then? 

WILHELM. 
Yes,  Major. 

MAJOR. 

Old  donkey.  .  .  .  Well,   you   see   how  it  is  ...  The 
same  old  story. 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 

Richard,  do  you  know,  last  night  a  thought  came  to  me. 
They  all  idolise  him — that  boy. 

MAJOR. 

Yes? 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 

Well,  with  the  ladies  of  the  regiment,  it  is  no  great 
wonder.  .  .  . 

MAJOR. 

So  far  as  they  wish  to  get  married — no. 
[73] 


FRITZCHEN 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 

But  there  is  another  who  takes  a  very  special  interest  in 
him — motherly,  as  one  might  say.  .  .  .  No,  motherly 
is  not  just  the  right  word,  but  at  any  rate,  purely  human, 
purely  spiritual — you  know  what  I  mean.  At  the  last 
ball  in  Wartenstein,  she  questioned  me  at  length  about 
him,  about  his  childhood,  and  everything  possible.  At  the 
time  I  was  really  rather  indignant,  but  now  it  pleases 
me.  ...  I  shall  write  to  her  to-day  and  ask  her  to  keep 
an  eye  upon  him.  For  you  see,  a  woman's  influence — 
that  is  what  he  needs. 

MAJOR. 

Ah,  the  poor  devil!  And  for  that  purpose,  one  of  the 
kind.  .  .  .  Who  then  is  it? 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 
Why!    You  surely  know  her  .  .  .  Frau  von  Lanski  of 

Steinhof. 

(AGNES  winces.) 

MAJOR. 
Ah.  indeed — well,  to  be  sure,  hm — that  is  quite  probable. 

FRATT  VON  DROSSE. 

Their  estate  is  quite  close  to  the  city  .  .  .  There  he  could 
always  go  in  the  evenings  ...  If  only  the  husband  were 
not  so  rude.     I  should  be  afraid  of  him. 
[74] 


FRITZCHEN 

MAJOR. 
Well,  you  are  not  a  lieutenant  of  hussars,  darling. 

AGNES. 
Won't  you  drink  your  coffee,  aunt  ?     It  will  be  quite 

cold. 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 

Ah,  the  stupid  fig-coffee.  To  be  sure,  your  health  is 
good,  you  don't  need  anything  of  the  kind!  (drinks) 
Richard,  do  you  know,  last  night  I  saw  a  vision. 

MAJOR. 
Well,  what  did  you  see  this  time,  darling  ? 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 

There  was  a  wide  chamber  with  many  mirrors  and 
lights — perhaps  it  was  Versailles — perhaps  the  castle 
at  Berlin.  And  hundreds  of  generals  stood  there  and 
waited.  .  .  .  (Excitedly.)  And  suddenly  the  door  was 
opened  wide  and  at  the  side  of  the  Emperor 

AGNES. 
Drink,  aunt — tell  about  it  later — it  excites  you. 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 

Yes,  my  sweet  one,  yes.  (Drinks  and  leans  back  ex- 
hausted.) You  know,  Richard,  perhaps  they  are  to  in- 
crease his  pay. 

[75] 


FRITZCHEN 

MAJOR. 

Surely  he  has  enough,  darling.  Do  you  wish  him  to 
gamble  it  away  ? 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 

Very  well,  then,  let  him  gamble  it  away.  I  find  that  in 
general  we  pay  so  little  heed  to  him  ....  I  am  obliged 
to  think  all  the  time  how  he  acted  in  a  roundabout  way  in 
the  matter  of  Foxblaze.  He  didn't  trust  himself  even 
to  tell  it. 

MAJOR  (laughing). 

No,  child — but  just  stop.  .  .  .  Besides  the  charger  he 
already  has  two  others  .  .  .  And  one  of  them  is  Mo- 
hammed! Such  a  big  stable — it  is  only  a  nuisance  to 
him.  .  .  .  Just  consider! 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 

Ah,  it  is  surely  only  restlessness.  Ah,  I  wish  he  were 
only 

WILHELM. 

(Who  had  gone  out,  appears  excitedly  at  the  door  on  the 
right  and  calls  softly.)  Major,  Major! 

MAJOR  (springing  up). 
What  is  it  ? 

[76] 


FRITZCHEN 

WILHELM  (in  a  whisper), 
The — the — young — master ! 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE  (turning  round  suddenly}. 
What  is  it  about  the  young  master  ? 

MAJOR  (rushes  out.     His  voice  is  heard). 
Boy,  boy,  boy! 

(FRAU  VON  DROSSE  breaks  out  in  ecstatic  laughter.) 

AGNES. 
Quietly,  aunt!     Quietly!     Don't  excite  yourself! 

SEVENTH  SCENE. 

THE  SAME.  FRITZ  VON  DROSSE  (in  hussar  uniform, 
his  mother's  son,  slender,  delicate,  very  youthful,  blond  to 
the  roots  of  his  closely  cropped  hair,  small  curled  mous- 
tache, erratic  person.  Uneasiness  is  veiled  beneath  a  noisy 
cheerfulness). 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 

(Goes  to  meet  him  with  outstretched  arms.)  My  God! 
there  he  really  is! 

FRITZ. 

I  should  think  he  was!     (Presses  her  to  his  heart  and 
strokes  her  hair,  closes  his  eyes  a  moment,  as  if  overcome 
[77] 


FRITZCHEN 

with  faintness.)  But  be  seated,  mamma,  be  seated.  Con- 
found it,  but  I  have  ridden!  And  on  the  way,  my  horse 
lost  another  shoe. 

MAJOR. 
Mohammed  ? 

FRITZ. 
No,  I  am  riding  the  Spy. 

MAJOR. 
Where  did  it  happen  ? 

FRITZ. 

Thank  God!  just  near  Gehlsdorf.  ...  I  wasted 
twenty-five  minutes  at  the  blacksmith's.  .  .  .  But  then — 
when — you  should  have  seen!  .  .  .  Yes,  Wilhelm,  just  see 
to  it  that  the  horse  is  well  scraped  and  rubbed  down. 
And  don't  let  him  stand  just  now — first  lead  him  about 
properly.  .  .  .  An  hour,  feeding  time — understand,  old 
chap?  .  .  .  There,  give  me  your  paw — so! — don't  be  so 
agitated.  .  .  .  And  now,  go  on,  out  with  you! 

(Exit  WILHELM.) 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 
Come  here,  my  Fritzchen,  sit  beside  me! 

FRITZ. 

Very  well,  mamma,  let  us,  very  well! 
[78] 


FRITZCHEN 

FKAU  VON  DROSSE. 
You  see,  Agnes  she  had  a  presentiment  about  you. 

FRITZ. 
Ah!    Good-day,  Agnes! 

AGNES. 
Good-day,  Fritz! 

FRITZ. 
You  are  so  formal! 

AGNES. 

I?  ...  Ah,  no,  dear  Fritz.  .  .  .  Would  you  not  like 
to  drink  something? 

(FRITZ  stares  at  her,  without  replying.) 

MAJOR. 
Fritz! 

FRITZ  (starting  up). 

Yes,  father! 

MAJOR. 

You  are  asked  a  question. 

FRITZ. 

To  be  sure,  pardon  me!  .  .  .  Pardon  me,  dear  Agnes! 
.  .  It  is  the  heat  ...  It  makes  one  quite  idiotic.  .  .  . 
Please  bring  me  anything  you  like.  .  .  .  No,  bring  me 
rather  some  Rhine  wine.  .  .  .  Bring  some  of  the  '64. 
[79] 


FRITZCHEN 

MAJOR  (laughing). 
You  go  eagerly  at  the  stuff,  my  son.  .  .  . 

FRITZ. 

Forgive  me,  father,  if  I  was  too  bold.  I  don't  know 
how  I  came  to  do  it. 

MAJOR  (to  AGNES). 
Just  bring  it,  bring  it. 

(AGNES  takes  the  keys  from  the  shelf  and  goes  out  to  the 
right.} 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 
How  long  have  you  furlough,  my  boy  ? 

FRITZ. 

Furlough  ?  Ha,  ha,  furlough  .  .  .  No  furlough  at  all. 
Sixty  precious  minutes,  I  have  spared  for  you  (stretching 
himself)  then  it  is  over!  (Throws  himself  into  a  chair 
standing  near  the  place  where  his  mother  is  sitting.) 

MAJOR. 

It  is  "over,"  what  does  that  mean?  Are  you  then  on 
duty? 

FRITZ. 

On  duty  ?  .  .  .  Well,  yes  indeed,  I  am  on  duty — to  be 
sure — of  course. 

[80] 


FRITZCHEN 

MAJOR. 
What  duty  can  that  be  ? 

FRITZ. 
Well,  a  patrol  ride,  of  course. 

MAJOR. 
When  did  you  set  out  ? 

FRITZ. 
At  noon,  father. 

MAJOR. 

Remarkable.  In  my  time,  the  cavalry  rode  in  patrol 
service  rather  about  midnight. 

FRITZ. 

Yes,  the  old  man*  does  such  things.  ...  It  is  all  one 
to  him.  If  he  can  give  petty  annoyance.  Yes. 

MAJOR. 
How  do  you  have  time  to  stop  in  here  ? 

FRITZ. 

Well,  I  had  to  unsaddle,  and  anyhow  have  ridden  four 
and  a  half  miles.  It  was  only  the  question  whether  I 
should  feed  the  horse  at  Braun's — at  the  entrance  where 

one  gets  merely  water  or 

*  The  colonel. 

[81] 


FRITZCHEN 

MAJOR. 
Of  course  you  are  right  about  that. 

FBAU  VON  DROSSE  (stroking  his  hands). 
See  what  brown  hands  the  boy  has  got.  ...  I  wonder 
how  they  can  be  burned  through  the  gloves  .  .  .  Just  look, 
Richard,  he  has  the  white  mark  on  his  forehead,  there  where 
it  is  shaded.  The  last  time,  it  was  not  there.  My  boy, 
my  boy!  (Bends  down  her  head  and  kisses  him  on  the 
forehead.) 

(FRITZ  closes  his  eyes  and  utters  a  low  whimpering  ex- 
clamation of  pain.) 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 
What  was  it  ?     Did  I  hurt  you,  my  boy  ? 

FRITZ  (with  embarrassed  laughter). 
Oh,  no — no! 

MAJOR. 
Control  yourself,  Fritz! 

FRITZ. 
Yes,  father! 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 

Let  him  alone,  Richard!    Remember  he  has  to  leave 
directly. 

[82] 


FRITZCHEN 

FRITZ  (staring  straight  before  him). 
Yes,  I  must  go  directly. 

MAJOR  (shaking  his  head,  examines  him). 
Remarkable ! 

AGNES  .(who  returns  with  a  bottle  and  glasses). 
There  is  the  wine,  dear  Fritz. 

FRITZ. 

Ah,  if  only  the  wine  is  there!     (Hurries  to  the  table 
and  pours  the  wine.)     Does  no  one  touch  glasses  with  me  ? 

MAJOR. 
Just  wait,  I  will  touch  glasses  with  you. 

FRITZ. 

Then  long  life  to  us,  friends!     May  we  live  happily.  .  .  . 
Long  may  we  live.  .  .  .  (Musing.)     May  we  live  as  long 

as  possible! 

MAJOR. 

But  you  are  not  drinking. 

FRITZ. 
Yes,  yes.     (Tosses  down  a  glass.) 

MAJOR. 

Well,  I  should  like  to  take  this  occasion  to  ask  you 
just  why  you  don't  write  to  us  any  more. 
[83] 


FRITZCHEN 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 

Please,  Richard,  please  say  nothing  to  him — he  tele- 
graphed. 

FRITZ  (starting  anxiously). 

Telegraphed  ?     What  did  I  telegraph  ? 

(MAJOR  makes  signals  to  him  behind  his  mother's  back.) 

FRITZ. 

Yes,  of  course.  You  see,  father,  I  telegraphed.  .  .  . 
And  then,  not  long  ago,  I  fell  from  the  trapeze  and  sprained 

my  arm  a  bit. 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 

You  see,  Richard,  that  is  what  hurt  him  just  now;  and 

yet  you  scolded  him. 

FRITZ. 

Mamma,  father  is  right.  ...  A  soldier  is  not  allowed 
to  show  signs  of  pain — he  has  no  pain.  That  is  some- 
thing which  doesn't  happen,  it  is  something  which  doesn't 
happen  at  all,  does  it,  Agnes  ? 

AGNES. 
Why  do  you  ask  me,  Fritz  ? 

MAJOR. 

Remarkable!  .  .  .  You  know,  darling,  the  boy  would 
like  something  to  eat.  In  such  cases,  you  always  see  to 
it  yourself — eh  ? 

[84] 


FRITZCHEN 

FRITZ. 

No,  indeed,  mother — stay  here,  mother.     (He  grasps 
her  hands.) 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE  (imploringly). 
Richard,  the  time  is  just  now  so  short. 

MAJOR. 

Won't  do,  child!     I  have  to  speak  to  him  about  some- 
thing. 

FRITZ. 

What  is  it,  father  ?    There  is  indeed  no  question  of  ... 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE  (standing  up  and  sighing). 
Don't  be  too  long,   Richard.     Remember  I  wish  to 
have  something  more  of  him.     (Goes  with  Agnes  to  the 
door  on  the  left,  where  she  turns  again.)     My  boy,  don't 
you  look  at  me  any  more? 

FRITZ. 

(Who  has  been  standing  with  averted  face,  biting  his 
lips,  turns  suddenly.)     At  your  service,  mother! 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 

Now  he  is  on  his  "at  your  service"  footing,  even  with 
me. 

(Exit  FRAU  VON  DROSSE  with  AGNES.) 

[85] 


FRITZCHEN 

EIGHTH  SCENE. 
MAJOR.       FRITZ. 

MAJOR. 

Well,  Fritz,  my  boy,  here  we  are  now  alone,  just  out  with 
what  you  have  to  say  .  .  .  Exactly  what  is  the  matter? 

FRITZ. 

Nothing,  father,  absolutely  nothing  .  .  .  What  should 
be  the  matter  ? 

MAJOR. 

You  know,  this  story  about  the  sprained  arm  and  the 
patrol  ride,  that  is  simply  a  lie! 

FRITZ. 
How  so  ? 

MAJOR. 
Will  you  smoke  a  cigar  with  me  ? 

FRITZ. 

If  you  please  .  .  .  That  is,  I  should  like  a  glass  of 
water.     (Tosses  down  two  glasses  of  water.} 

MAJOR  (ligJits  his  cigar). 

Just  see,  Fritz,  in  your  rage  you  fail  to  notice  that  I 
am  insulting  you  here. 

[86] 


FRITZCHEN 

FRITZ. 

How  can  a  father  be  said  to  insult  his  son  ?  If  you 
don't  believe  me,  then  you  just  don't  believe  me. 

MAJOR. 

But  we  are  both  officers,  my  son.  .  .  .  Well,  let  us  set 
that  aside — besides  that,  we  are  a  couple  of  good  friends 
from  time  immemorial.  .  .  .  Isn't  that  the  case — are  we 
not? 

FRITZ. 
Oh,  to  be  sure. 

MAJOR. 

And  when  I  see  you  running  about  here — in  ecstasy  or 
despair — I  can  make  nothing  out  of  it.  Yes,  I  should 
like  to  advise  you  to  put  a  little  more  confidence  in  me. 
.  .  .  The  affair  is  surely  not  so  bad  that  a  man  of  expe- 
rience cannot  put  it  in  order  again.  ...  So  just  sit  down 
here  a  while.  .  .  .  Have  you  gambled  ? 

FRITZ. 
Yes,  I  have  gambled  too. 

MAJOR. 
Have  you  lost? 

FRITZ. 
No,  I  have  won. 

87] 


FRITZCHEN 

MAJOR. 
Then,  as  to  women — how  is  it  about  women  ? 

FRITZ  (shrugs  his  shoulders). 
Ah! 

MAJOR. 

Boy,  don't  be  so  hard  in  the  mouth.  .  .  .  Do  you  think 
I  don't  know  you  are  in  love  ?  .  .  . 

FRITZ. 
In  love?    Ah,  good  God! 

MAJOR. 

Just  think,  my  boy,  only  a  year  and  a  half  ago,  you  came 
to  me  one  fine  day  and  explained  to  me  that  you  wished 
to  engage  yourself  to  Agnes.  .  .  .  You  know  that  I  have 
not  the  slightest  objection  to  Agnes.  She  will  make  an 
excellent  Frau  von  Drosse. 

FRITZ. 
Indeed  ?    Do  you  believe  it  ? 

MAJOR. 

But  your  twenty-one  years  and,  ah,  good  God!  .  .  . 
You  still  carry  about  with  you  most  merrily  the  egg- 
shells on  your  back — as  the  infantry  carries  the  knap- 
sack. You  hadn't  the  slightest  idea  of  what  are  com- 
monly called  "women" — of  course,  I  don't  count  barmaids 
[*8] 


FRITZCHEN 

and  such  people.  ...  So  I  said  to  you:  "My  boy, 
let  this  interview  be  buried — and  above  all,  so  far  as 
Agnes  is  concerned.  .  .  .  Do  as  your  father  and  your 
grandfather  did!  Get  some  experience  and — then  come 
again."  Don't  you  remember  that? 

FRITZ. 
I  should  think  I  did  remember  it. 

MAJOR  (smiling). 
And  now,  it  seems  to  me,  you  have  had  some  experience. 

FRITZ. 
Oh,  yes,  there  is  no  denying  that. 

MAJOR  (still  smiling). 

You  have  in  the  end  had  a  so-called  "passion,"  or  are 
stuck  in  the  middle  of  it;  which  of  the  two  I  don't  know. 
Yet  to  judge  from  the  discontinuance  of  your  letters,  the 
latter  is  the  case.  .  .  .  Since  we  are  here  together  as  two 
men,  I  will  not  expostulate  with  you  further.  .  .  .  You 
know  perhaps  the  story  of  that  abbe  who,  in  society,  once 
excused  the  absence  of  his  bishop  with  the  words :  "  Mon- 
seigneur  est  en  retard  a  cause  d'amour."  To  a  certain 
extent,  this  holds  good  in  every  case.  .  .  .  But  in  spite 
of  that,  on  your  mother's  account,  don't  do  it  again. 
That  is  my  advice  to  you.  .  .  .  There!  And  now  we'll 
[89] 


FRITZCHEN 

enter  at  once  upon  the  matter  itself.  .  .  .  Just  see,  Frau 
von  Lanski  is,  it  will  be  admitted,  a  very  charming 
woman,  but 

FRITZ  (impetuously). 
Father,  how  do  you  come  to  refer  to  Frau  von  Lanski  ? 

MAJOR. 

There,  there,  there,  only  take  it  calmly,  only  take  it 
calmly.  ...  I  know  just  what  there  is  to  know  about 
such  affairs,  and  I  don't  by  any  means  wish  to  pry  into 
your  secrets  .  .  .  But  so  far  as  the  grand  passion  is  con- 
cerned, be  calm.  ...  I  can  cure  you  again  ...  Be  quite 
calm. 

FRITZ. 

That  I  can  well  believe,  father,  if  only  you  have  the 
time  necessary  to  do  it. 

MAJOR  (smiling). 
Well,  why  haven't  I  ? 

FRITZ. 
Because,  in  twenty-four  hours,  I  shall  be  a  dead  man. 

MAJOR. 

(Springing  up,  and  taking  him  by  the  shoulder.)     Boy ! 
[90] 


FRITZCHEN 

FRITZ. 

Father,  I  did  not  wish  to  tell  anything.  I  came  here 
only  to  take  farewell  of  you  in  silence.  But  you  have 
drawn  it  out  of  me,  father. 

MAJOR  (flying  into  a  passion), 

So,  there's  a  scandal.  .  .  .  You  had  to  carry  it  to  the 
point  of  making  a  scandal — you  damned  fool!  (More 
calmly.)  Lanski  has  challenged  you  ? 

(FRITZ  nods  assent.) 

I 
MAJOR. 

Well,  yes — and  it  is  well  known — Lanski  is  a  dead 
shot.  He  is  perhaps  the  best  shot  anywhere  hereabouts. 
.  .  .  But  still  your  wrist  is  in  good  order.  How  can  one 
throw  the  thing  away  like  that  ?  I  have  fought  three 
duels,  and  two  of  them  under  difficult  conditions — eh — 
and — there,  see  here!  How  can  one  say  such  a  thing? 
How  can  one,  man  ? 

FRITZ. 

Father,  the  affair  at  this  moment  is  in  such  a  state  that, 
after  all,  I  don't  know  whether  I  shall  be  granted  a  duel! 

MAJOR  (hoarsely). 

I  don't  understand  that,  Fritz. 
[91] 


FRITZCHEN 

FRITZ. 

Then  don't  ask  me!  ...  I  can't  say  it,  father.  ...  I 
had  rather  bite  off  my  tongue.     (Pauses.) 

MAJOR. 

(Goes  to  the  door  on  the  left,  opens  it,  looks  out,  and 
closes  it  again.)     Now  speak!     (Wildly.)     Speak  or 

FRITZ. 

Forme,  father,  there  is  no  more  any  "or."  .  .  .  Whether 
you  turn  me  out  or  not,  it  is  all  the  same. 

MAJOR  (softly,  grinding  his  teeth). 
Do  you  wish  to  drive  me  mad,  boy  ? 

(FRITZ  crying  out). 

He  whipped  me — across  the  courtyard — out  into  the 
street — whipped  me  like  a  beast! 

MAJOR  (after  a  silence). 
Where  was  your  sabre?    You   could   have  run   him 

through. 

(FRITZ  silent,  with  downcast  eyes.) 

MAJOR. 
Where  was  your  sabre,  I  ask  you  ? 

FRITZ. 

It  was — not — at  hand,  father. 
[92] 


FRITZCHEN 

MAJOR. 

It  was — not — at  hand.  .  .  .  Hm!  .  .  .  Now  I  under- 
stand it  all.  Surely  there  is  nothing  left  to  wish!  And 
this  catastrophe  occurred  when? 

FRITZ. 
Yesterday  evening,  father! 

MAJOR. 
At  what  time  ? 

FRITZ. 
It  was  still — daylight! 

MAJOR. 

Ha,  ha! 

FRITZ. 

Father,  only  don't  laugh!    Have  pity  on  me! 

MAJOR. 

Have  you  had  pity  on  me?  ...  Or  on  your  mother? 
or  on — on.  .  .  .  Just  look,  look  about  you  .  .  .  All  that 
was  made  for  you!  .  .  .  All  that  was  waiting  for  you. 
.  .  .  For  two  centuries  we  Drosses  have  struggled  and 
scraped  together  and  fought  with  death  and  devil — • 
merely  for  you.  .  .  .  The  house  of  Drosse  was  resting 
on  your  two  shoulders,  my  son.  .  .  .  And  you  have  let  it 
fall  into  the  mire,  and  now  you  would  like  to  be  pitied! 
[93] 


FRITZCHEN 

FRITZ. 

Dear  father,  listen.  .  .  .  Since  you  have  known  it,  I 
am  quite  calm.  .  .  .  What  you  say  is  all  very  true,  but 
I  cannot  bear  the  responsibility  alone.  Listen;  when  I 
came  to  you  that  time,  on  account  of  Agnes,  my  whole 
heart  was  attached  to  her.  So  far  as  I  was  concerned, 
other  men's  wives  could  go  to  the  devil. 

MAJOR. 
Did  I  drive  you,  then,  after  other  men's  wives? 

FRITZ. 

Yes,  father,  otherwise  what  does  that  mean:  "Get 
some  experience,  ripen,  do  as  your  father  and  grandfather 
did "  ?  .  .  .  In  the  regiment,  they  still  call  you  the  wild 
Drosse.  and  tales  are  still  told  of  your  former  love  ad- 
ventures. .  .  .  They  tell  some  such  stories  even  of  a  late 
date.  .  .  .  For  my  part,  I  had  not  the  least  taste  for 
such  diversions.  I  used  to  see  in  every  woman  who  did 
not  belong  to  me,  a  sort  of  holy  thing.  .  .  .  That  may 
have  been  a  green  way  of  looking  at  it,  but  you  would 
have  allowed  it ;  and  with  Agnes,  I  should  have  quietly 

MAJOR. 

Stop!    Have  pity!    Stop! 

[94] 


FRITZCHEN 

FRITZ. 

See,  now  you  say  to  me  all  at  once,  "have  pity" — 
Father,  I  am  a  dying  man,  I  did  not  come  here  to  make 
reproaches,  but  do  you  make  none  to  me! 

MAJOR. 

(Embracing  him,  and  stroking  his  hair.)  My  son — 
my  all — my  boy — I  don't  permit — I  will  not 

FRITZ. 
Silence,  silence,  father!    Mother  should  not  hear  that. 

MAJOR. 

Yes,  forgive  me  for  giving  way.  It  shall  not  happen 
again.  ...  So  how  does  the  affair  stand  now  ? 

FRITZ. 
I  reported  myself  to  the  old  man,  that  very  night. 

MAJOR. 
My  God!    Whatever  did  the  old  Frohn  say? 

FRITZ. 

Spare  me  that,  father.  ...  Of  course,  I  obtained  the 
usual  furlough  at  once,  until  the  discharge  comes.  Well, 
that  doesn't  matter  now.  ...  It  does  not  last  long,  thus. 
.  .  .  This  morning,  the  court  of  honor  had  a  sitting. 
After  my  hearing,  I  rode  away  at  once,  so  as  to  lose  no 
[95] 


FRITZCHEN 

time.  I  gave  Mohammed  to  Hallerpfort  in  order  to 
have  him  follow  me  as  soon  as  judgment  was  pronounced. 
He  may  be  here  at  any  moment. 

MAJOR. 
Why  did  you  summon  a  court  of  honor  ? 

FRITZ. 

What  was  I  to  do,  father,  after  Lanski  declared  to 
those  who  delivered  my  challenge  that  I  was  no  longer — 
capable  of  having  satisfaction  ? 

MAJOR. 
Ah!  I  will  shoot  the  dog  dead  for  that. 

FRITZ. 
Well,  I  hope  they  will  decide  favourably  to  me. 

MAJOR. 

If  not,  the  dev —  (Softly.)  And  then  I  will  tell  you 
a  couple  of  measures  to  take  so  as  to  have  a  steady  hand. 
Sleep  properly,  and  don't  eat  a  bite,  and  then  tell  the 

doctor 

FRITZ. 

Enough,  enough,  father,  that  is  of  no  further  use. 

MAJOR. 
What  does  that  mean?    Is  it  possible  that  you  will — 

to  Lanski  ? 

[96] 


FRITZCHEN 

FRITZ. 
Lanski  will  hit  me.     Depend  upon  it.  ... 

MAJOR. 
Man,  are  you — are  you ? 

FRITZ. 
Lanski  will  hit  me.     Depend  upon  it.  ... 

MAJOR. 
Man,  yet  have — yet  consider 

FRITZ. 

I  will  not,  father!  And  if  you  had  seen  the  spectacle 
which  the  people  of  Wartenstein  saw  yesterday  (shudders'), 
you  would  demand  nothing  more  of  life  for  me  than  a 
half -respectable  death.  .  .  . 

MAJOR  (brokenly). 
Perhaps — they  will  not — grant  you — the  duel. 

FRITZ. 

Well,  if  we  have  got  to  that  last  hope,  father,  then  we  are 
indeed  in  bad  straits.  .  .  .  Shall  I  perhaps  open  a  dram- 
shop in  Chicago,  or  a  cattle  business  with  my  paternal 
capital  ?  Yes  ?  Would  you  have  done  it  ? 

MAJOR  (perplexed). 
I? 

[97] 


FRITZCHEN 

FRITZ. 
Say  then — say! 

MAJOR  (drawing  himself  up). 
No!     (Sinks  down  in  his  chair.) 

FRITZ. 
So  you  see,  father — so  or  so — your  Fritz  is  done  for. 

MAJOR  (sunk  in  gloomy  reverie). 
My  fault! — my 

NINTH  SCENE. 

THE  SAME.     WILHELM.     Afterward  LIEUTENANT  VON 
HALLERPFORT. 

FRITZ. 
What  is  it  ? 

WILHELM. 

Lieutenant  von  Hallerpfort  wishes  to  speak  to  the  young 

master. 

FRITZ. 

(Hurrying  past  him  to  the  door.)     Well  ? 

(HALLERPFORT  shakes  hands  with  him  and  the  MAJOR, 
and  casts  a  glance  at  WILHELM,  who  forthwith  disappears.) 

FRITZ. 
Well? 

[98] 


FRITZCHEN 

HALLERPFORTX 
Does  your  father  know  ? 

MAJOR. 
Yes,  my  dear  Hallerpfort,  I  know. — Granted  ? 

HALLERPFORT. 

To-morrow   morning,   half  after  four  o'clock — behind 
the  large  drill-ground. 

FRITZ. 
Thank  God! 

MAJOR. 
Thank  God!     (They  embrace.) 

FRITZ  (disengaging  himself). 
Conditions  ? 

HALLERPFORT. 

Fifteen  paces — advance — five  paces  barrier — exchange 
of  shots 

FRITZ. 
To  a  finish  ? 

HALLERPFORT. 
To  a  finish. 

FRITZ. 
Very  well! 

[99] 


FRITZCHEN 

(MAJOR  turns  toward  the  door,  and  presses  his  hands 
to  his  face.) 

HALLERPFORT  (approaching  him). 
Major,  as  your  son's  best  friend 

MAJOR  (grasping  his  hands). 

I  thank  you,  nay  dear  Hallerpfort,  I  thank  you.  .  .  . 
You  will  ride  away  at  once,  will  you  not  ? 

HALLERPFORT. 
Unfortunately  we  must,  Major. 

MAJOR. 

Then  just  listen.  ...  I  will  pass  the  hours  until  the 
duel,  with  my  son.  .  .  .  That  you  can  understand, 
can't  you  ?  .  .  .  My  carriage  is  hitched  up — but  I  can- 
not go  away  with  you  for  fear  of  making  my  sick  wife 
uneasy.  Wait  for  me  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour  in  Schran- 
der's  inn.  .  .  .  Don't  fear.  We  shall  be  on  time.  .  .  . 

HALLERPFORT. 
It  will  be  as  you  order,  Major. 

MAJOR. 
And  now,  courage,  Fritz! 

FRITZ. 

That  is  understood,  father! 

[100] 


FRITZCHEN 

MAJOR. 

(Holding  open  the  door  on  the  left,  in  a  different  tone.) 
Now,  boys,  just  come  quickly  in!  Only  think,  darling 

TENTH  SCENE. 
THE  SAME.     FRAU  VON  DRO88E. 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 

Ah — Herr  von  Hallerpfort!  (He  kisses  her  hand.) 
How  does  this  happen?  Two  lieutenants  in  the  house 
at  the  same  time — if  that  doesn't  bring  luck! 

FRITZ  (quickly). 
We  have  orders  together,  mamma. 

HALLERPFORT. 
And  alas,  madam,  we  have  to  be  off  this  very  minute. 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 

How  is  that  ?  Then  I  don't  have  my  full  hour  ?  And 
now  everything  is  so  beautifully  arranged.  .  .  .  Fritz,  my 
dear  Hallerpfort — just  a  bite,  won't  you  ?  .  .  .  Richard, 
dear,  come  to  my  aid. 

MAJOR. 

But,  dear  child,  service  is  service. 
[101] 


FRITZCHEN 

FRITZ  (with  quick  decision). 
So,  good-bye,  mamma! 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE  (embracing  him). 
My  boy — you  will  soon  have  furlough,  won't  you  ? 

FRITZ. 

Yes  indeed,  mamma!  After  the  manoeuvres.  Then  we 
are  free.  Then  we  will  be  merry! 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 
And  Hallerpfort  is  coming  with  you,  isn't  he  ? 

HALLERPFORT. 
With  your  permission,  madam. 

MAJOR  (softly,  to  AGNES). 
Take  leave  of  him!     You  will  never  see  him  again.' 

FRITZ. 

(Stretching  out  his  hand  cheerfully  to  her.)  Dear 
Ag —  (Looks  into  her  face,  and  understands  that  she 
knows.  Softly,  earnestly.)  Farewell,  then. 

AGNES. 
Farewell,  Fritz! 

FRITZ. 
I  love  you. 

[102] 


FRITZCHEN 

AGNES. 
I  shall  always  love  you,  Fritz! 

FRITZ. 

Away  then,  Hallerpfort!  Au  revoir,  papa!  Au  re- 
voir!  Revoir!  (Starts  for  the  door  on  the  right.) 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 
Go  by  the  park,  boys — there  I  have  you  longer  in  sight- 

FRITZ. 

Very  well,  mamma,  we  will  do  it!  (Passes  with  HAL- 
LERPFORT through  the  door  at  the  centre;  on  the  terrace,  he 
turns  with  a  cheerful  gesture,  and  calls  once  more.)  Au 
revoir!  (His  voice  is  still  audible.)  Au  revoir! 

(FRAU  VON  DROSSE  throws  kisses  after  him,  and  waves 
her  handkerchief,  then  presses  her  hand  wearily  to  her  heart 
and  sighs  heavily.) 

ELEVENTH  SCENE. 
MAJOR.       FRAU  VON  DROSSE.       AGNES. 

(AGNES  hurries  to  her,  and  leads  her  to  a  chair,  then 
goes  over  to  the  MAJOR,  who,  with  heaving  breast  is  lost  in 

thought.) 

FRAU  VON  DROSSE. 

Thank  you,  my  darling! — Already,   I  am  quite  well 
again!  .  .  .  God,  the  boy!    How  handsome  he  looked! 
[103] 


FRITZCHEN 

And  so  brown  and  so  healthy.  .  .  .  You  see,  I  saw  him 
exactly  like  that  last  night.  .  .  .  No,  that  is  no  illusion! 
And  I  told  you  how  the  Emperor  led  him  in  among  all 
the  generals!  And  the  emperor  said —  (More  softly, 
looking  far  away  with  a  beatific  smile.)  And  the  Emperor 
said 

CURTAIN. 


[104] 


Ill 
THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

A    PLAY    IN    ONE    ACT 


PERSONS 

THE  QUEEN. 
THE  MARSHAL. 
THE  PAINTER. 
THE  VALET  DE  CHAMBRE. 
THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 
THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE 
THE  SLEEPY  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 
THE  DEAF  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 
A  CHILD  AS  CUPID. 
Several  other  Marquises  and  Maids  of  Honour. 


[106] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

The  scene  represents  a  state  apartment  in  a  royal  castle. 
On  the  left,  a  throne  in  baroque  style.  On  the  right,  in 
the  background  a  screen  with  a  table  and  chairs  beside  it. 
In  the  centre,  an  easel. 

FIRST  SCENE. 

THE  QUEEN  in  a  plaited  coronation  robe,  on  the  throne. 
THE  PAINTER  with  palette  in  hand,  painting.  A  CHILD 
as  CUPID,  suspended  by  the  waist,  swings  on  THE  QUEEN'S 
left,  holding  a  croion  over  her  head.  The  background  and 
the  right  of  the  stage  are  occupied  by  ladies  and  gentlemen 
of  the  court,  among  them  THE  DEAF  MAID  OF  HONOUR, 

THE    SLEEPY    MAID    OF    HONOUR,    THE    MARQUIS    IN 
PINK,  and  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 

SONG  OF  THE  MAIDS  OF  HONOUR. 

(LED  BY  THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE.) 
Zephyr  rises  at  the  dawn 
From  the  budding  pillows  of  the  roses. 
Lo,  he  will  cool  his  hot  desire 
In  the  silvery  dew, 
[107] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

Since  he  must  console  himself 
That  his  dream  still  fans  the  flame, 
And  that  Luna's  icy  kiss 
Does  but  touch  his  parched  mouth. 

And  Aurora's  violet  passion 
Looks  on  him  with  floods  of  tears. 
Ah!   What  matters  Luna's  favour? — 
She  knows  not  how  to  kiss. 

THE  QUEEN  (yawning). 

The  pretty  verses  which  you  have  just  sung  to  sweeten 
this  long  posing  for  me,  grieve  me  slightly.  Yet — aside 
from  that — accept  my  thanks. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 
Oh,  your  Majesty! 

THE  QUEEN. 
Are  you  a  poet,  Marquis  ? 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 

Oh,  your  Majesty,  up  to  this  time  I  have  not  been; 
but  who  should  not  speak  in  verse  where  this  magic 
enthrals  us,  where  our  hearts  are  habitually  broken,  and 
Cupid  himself  bears  the  royal  crown? 

(CuPiD  begins  to  cry). 
[108] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

FIRST  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 
What  is  the  matter  with  him  ? 

SECOND  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 
Ah,  the  sweet  child! 

FIRST  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 
Be  good!    Nice  and  good!    Here  is  a  sweetmeat! 

CUPID. 
I  want  to  get  down!     My  legs  are  cold. 

THE  QUEEN. 
Oh,  fie!     The  word  offends  my  ears. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 

Pardon  him,  your  Majesty,  the  saucy  child  surely  does 
not  know  that  in  your  presence  one  can  speak  only  of 
roses,  lilies,  and  such  delicate  things. 

THE  QUEEN. 
It  seems  to  me  that  the  little  fellow  lacks  education. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 

Hereafter,  only  children  from  superior  families  should 
be  chosen  for  this  purpose. 

THE  QUEEN. 

And  you,  respected  artist,  have  no  word  to  say  ? 
[109] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  PAINTER. 

It  is  not  fitting  that  every  one  should  speak.  I  am  en- 
gaged to  paint,  not  to  make  speeches.  Still,  may  I  ask 
you  to  send  the  boy  away  ? 

(THE  QUEEN  laughing,  makes  a  sign.  Two  maids  of 
honour  set  him  free.) 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 
What  a  way  of  speaking! 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 
What  a  plebeian! 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 
How  self-conscious! 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 
And  she  dotes  on  him! 

THE  QUEEN. 

Nay,  dear  master,  speak!  For  rarely  do  I  have  the 
pleasure  of  finding  my  thought  sympathetically  stimu- 
lated by  the  thought  of  another.  I  do  so  like  to  think — I 
like  to  feel  perhaps  even  better — yet  these  gentlemen  talk 
as  if  they  were  in  a  fever. 

THE  MARQUISES. 
Oh,  your  Majesty! 

[110] 


THE   ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  QUEEN. 

Yes,  indeed!  Look  for  the  man  who  without  hope  of 
meretricious  gain  knows  how  to  devote  himself  faithfully 
to  noble  service,  and  who  without  honeyed  phrases  grace- 
fully pursues  what  is  dear  to  his  soul;  as  for  you — you 
could  borrow  for  yourselves  a  little  of  love's  fire  merely 
from  the  confectioner's  kitchen. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 
Oh,  that  is  severe! 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 
Oh,  that  is  almost  deadly! 

THE  QUEEN. 

Then  resist,  and  do  not  drag  along  inoffensively  the 
burden,  new  every  day,  of  my  old  contempt  which  I  be- 
stow upon  you,  because  it  pleases  me  to,  like  the  ordinance 
of  God.  But  let  him  expect  my  reward  who  can  say 
worthily  and  honourably:  Behold,  oh  Queen,  I  am  a 
man! 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 
I  am  one! 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 

So  am  I! 

[Ill] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  QUEEN. 

I  don't  think  ill  of  you!  I  like  you.  You  don't  dis- 
turb my  repose — yet,  dear  master,  what  say  you  to  that  ? 

THE  PAINTER. 
I  pray,  your  Majesty,  still  a  little  farther  to  the  right. 

THE  QUEEN  (smiling). 

And  is  that  all  ?  Does  nothing  which  may  occur  in 
this  room  interest  you  ? 

THE  PAINTER. 

Pardon  me,  your  Majesty,  the  daylight  is  scanty,  and 
besides — I  am  painting. 

THE  QUEEN. 

Look  at  him!  A  ray  of  light  is  of  more  value  to  him 
than  all  the  foolish,  gaudy  songs  of  love.  Is  it  not  true  ? 
See,  his  very  silence  and  bow  betoken  decided  resistance. 

THE  PAINTER. 

Madam,  forgive  me  if  my  words  and  bearing  were 
an  occasion  and  reason  for  misunderstanding.  I  speak 
now,  because  you  call  on  me  to  speak.  Every  ray  of  light 
is  a  ray  of  love,  and  if  its  portrayer  were  to  shut  it  out,  I 
should  like  to  know  what  would  remain  of  this  poor  art 
which  derives  its  sublimest  power  from  the  sources  of  de- 
sire. If  our  heart  does  not  tremble  in  our  hand,  if  into 
[112] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

the  flood  of  forms  which  stream  from  it,  no  flash  of  inner 
lightning  shines,  how  shall  we  express  in  these  colours 
life's  image,  the  storm  of  the  passions,  the  shy  play  of 
slight  feeling,  the  desperate  vacillation  of  exhausted 
hope,  and  all  the  rest  of  our  inner  life  ?  In  these  seven 
blotched  colours  (points  to  the  palette)  where  the  whole 
wide  universe  is  portrayed,  where  if  our  senses  are  starving 
for  truth,  is  phantasy  to  look  for  food  and  deliverance? 
Yet  if  we  have  to  speak  with  wisdom,  elegantly  and 
cleverly,  then  the  mysterious  volition  is  silent  and  the 
promised  land  recedes  far  away  from  us.  Therefore, 
madam,  leave  me  what  belongs  to  us  who  are  poor,  the 
sacred  right  to  create  and  to  be  silent. 

THE  QUEEN. 

You  call  yourself  poor — and  yet  you  are  rich.  You 
might  be  equal  to  the  rulers  of  this  earth.  Yet  what 
avails  the  kingdom  of  your  vision  ?  The  splendid  gift  of 
confidence  is  wanting  to  you. 

THE  PAINTER. 
How,  your  Majesty  ? 

THE  QUEEN. 

Like  a  Harpagon,  you  guard  the  treasures  of  your  soul, 
lest  any  of  your  feelings  should  be  stolen.     No  one  risks 
it — Jean,  give  me  my  smelling-bottle. 
[113] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE 
She  inflames  him. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 
On  the  contrary,  she  cools  him  off. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 
Just  to  inflame  him  anew. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 
I  wonder  if  she  truly  loves  him? 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 
At  any  rate,  she  wishes  to  excite  him. 

THE  QUEEN. 

There,  Jean,  merci.  .  .  .  Yet  what  was  I  about  to  say, 
has  no  one  seen  anything  of  our  Marshal  ? 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK  (softly), 
Is  he  still  missing  ? 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 
Why  does  she  want  him,  too  ? 

THE  QUEEN. 

I  really  believe  the  good  Marshal  is  offended.     It  is 
three  days  since  I  spoke  to  him  graciously  at  the  state 
reception.  .  .  .  That  seems  long  to  me. 
[114] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  PAINTER  (turning  to  THE  QUEEN). 
Is  the  Marshal  back  ?    The  Marshal  here  ? 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 

May  it  please  your  Majesty,  a  gentleman  of  the  court 
met  him  to-day.  He  was  standing  in  a  pouring  rain, 
and  trying  a  new  sword. 

THE  PAINTER  (to  himself). 
The  Marshal. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 

(Half  aloud  to  THE  PAINTER.)  Admit,  sir,  that  his 
coming  is  inconvenient  to  you  ? 

THE  QUEEN. 
Do  you  know  him,  master  ? 

THE  PAINTER. 
Your  Majesty,  I  have  never  seen  him. 

THE  QUEEN. 
Yet  you  would  like  to  make  his  acquaintance  ? 

THE  PAINTER. 
That  I  don't  know. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 

(Softly  to  THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE.)  How  the 
coward  betrays  himself! 

[115] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  PAINTER. 

Too  often  I  have  heard  his  name  spoken  in  wonder, 
here  with  disfavour,  there  with  enthusiasm,  yet  always 
as  if  a  miracle  was  happening  to  me,  too  often  for  me 
not  to  view  with  apprehension  the  nearness  of  this  power- 
ful man. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 

What  did  I  say?     He  is  afraid. 

THE  MARQUM  IN  PALE  BLUE. 
That  is  splendid! 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 

We  must  see  to  that  and  profit  by  it.  (Aloud.)  Yet 
I  advise  you,  dear  master,  hold  your  own.  He  has  a 
habit  sometimes  of  running  people  through.  Yet 

THE  PAINTER. 

As  one  impales  flies — of  an  afternoon — on  the  wall  ? 
My  felicitations,  Marquis!  Happily  for  you,  it  is  plain 
that  he  has  never  been  bored. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 
How  do  you  intend  that  ? 

THE  QUEEN. 

Gentlemen,  I  must  beg  you!     At  court,  the  master  has 
good  company.     It  amuses  me  when  he  meets  your  inso- 
[116] 


THE   ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

lence  with  wit  and  spirit,  and  gives  you  a  return  thrust. 
Only  try  the  experiment!  I  am  waiting.  .  .  .  Please, 
Jean,  my  handkerchief! 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 
I  have  a  right  to  be  angry! 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 
Yes,  indeed,  you  have  been  insulted! 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 

Ha!  Fearful  is  a  man  in  anger!  What  do  you  think — 
can  the  dauber  defend  himself  ? 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 
Attack  him  first  from  behind,  then  to  his  face. 

THE  QUEEN. 

I  thank  you,  Jean.  .  .  .  Well,  now,  you  dear  men, 
you  whisper,  sulk,  and  mutter  to  each  other.  What  is 
the  use  of  my  kindling  your  wit  ?  I  don't  strike  even  a 
little  spark  from  the  stone.  So  you  are  dismissed.  .  .  . 
Take  a  holiday.  And  do  you,  my  children,  go  home. 
But  in  a  little  while,  master,  let  us  talk  together,  after  our 
hearts'  desire!  The  ladies  of  the  suite — they  will  not 
disturb  you. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 

I  believe  it.     One  of  them  is  asleep. 
[117] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 
The  other  can't  hear. 

THE  QUEEN. 

Good-bye!  I  wish  you  to  go  home  to  do  penance  for 
your  sins  of  love.  (Goes  to  the  door  on  the  right.)  One 
thing  more.  When  you  see  the  good  Marshal,  give  him 
my  greetings.  (Exit,  followed  by  the  ladies.  Only  the 
sleepy  lady  remains,  sitting.) 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 

(Softly  to  the  deaf  lady.)  Pst !  Wake  her !  (She  nods  to 
him  pleasantly  and  goes  out.)  Ah,  yes,  she  is  deaf! 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 
(Pointing  at  the  lady  asleep.)     Pluck  her  by  the  sleeve. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 
Fraulein,  allow  me  ? 

THE  SLEEPY  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 
(Springs  up  with  a  little  cry,  makes  a  low  curtsey  to  THE 
MARQUIS,  which  he  returns  in  kind,  then  follows  the  other 
ladies.) 


[118] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

SECOND  SCENE. 

THE  MARQUISES.       THE  PAINTER. 

(THE  PAINTER  paints,  ivithout  noticing  the  others,  then 
takes  a  buttered  roll  from  his  pocket  and  eats.) 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 
Ha,  now  I  am  going  to  kill  him! 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 

Don't  you  know  it  is  forbidden  ?  The  punishment 
would  be  severe.  They  say,  too,  that  he  wields  a  keen 
blade,  and  before  you  know  it  you  are  dead  as  a  mouse. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 

I  am  surprised  at  that.  Yet  whether  we  love  or  hate 
him,  one  thing  is  as  clear  to  me  as  day:  he  must  not  be 
allowed  to  quit  this  palace  alive. 

ANOTHER  MARQUIS. 
Pardon  me,  Marquis,  why  not  ? 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 

You  don't  see  deeply  into  this,  Marquis.  It  seems 
almost  as  if  you  were  a  simpleton.  Has  she  not  mocked 
us,  and  exclaimed  at  our  cooing,  rustling,  sweet  speaking, 
and  whimpering?  Yet  she  delights  to  have  him  paint 
her;  and  as  a  reward,  she  loves  him. 
[119] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  SECOND  MARQUIS. 
Ha,  terrible! 

THE  THIRD  MARQUIS. 
Who  told  you  that  ? 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 
Have  pity  on  us,  friend,  and  give  us  proofs! 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 

Well,  his  Majesty  (all  bow)  is,  alas,  well  on  in  years! 
(All  assent  sor row f idly.)  Whom  else  does  she  love  ? 
There  must  at  any  rate  be  some  one! 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 
For  God's  sake,  be  prudent  and  speak  softly! 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 
What  is  he  doing  there  ? 

THE  SECOND  MARQUIS. 
He  is  eating. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 
Fie,  how  vulgar! 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 

What  will  happen  to  the  Marshal  ? 
[120] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 

That  seems  to  me  doubtful.  Sometimes  she  is  pleasant 
with  him,  sometimes  ill-humoured.  I  have  tried  to  get  rid 
of  him,  but  he  still  stays  by  me.  He  causes  me  the  pangs 
of  jealousy.  She  must  love  one  of  us.  We  are  here  for 
that  purpose.  Yet  inasmuch  as  this  wandering  fellow 
has  stolen  her  heart,  he  must  die — and  that  on  the  spot. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 

Patience,  Marquis,  patience!  Of  all  the  means  of 
shaking  off  this  insolent  fellow,  there  is  one  which  is  really 
exquisite.  Without  breaking  the  laws,  if  we  set  the 
Marshal  on  him,  instead  of  being  disturbers  of  the  peace, 
we  shall  escape  scot-free.  He  dies,  of  course,  and  it  would 
be  a  wonder — yet  what  am  I  saying  ? — He  is  already  as 
good  as  a  dead  sparrow. 

(All  chuckle.) 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 
Dead  sparrow  is  excellent! 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 

This  murder — listen — is  bound  to  put  the  other  one 
into  disfavour.  The  King's  Majesty  (all  bow)  will  shorten 
his  leave  of  absence,  and  we,  we  shall  be  freed  of  him. 

(All  chuckle.) 
[121] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  PAINTER. 

What  are  they  about  ?  Alas,  if  they  are  glad,  perhaps 
that  means  the  ruin  of  some  man  of  honour.  Perhaps 
they  are  meditating  some  ribaldry.  But  in  truth,  what 
matters  to  me  this  vermin  ? 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 

Now  let  us  send  out  a  message  hastily  to  the  Marshal, 
that  we  are  gathered  in  the  antechamber,  and  while  this 
poor  dead  mouse — no,  pardon  me  sparrow! — stammers 
his  love  to  her,  he,  driven  by  us  to  extremes,  will  burst 
in  unannounced — and  this  fellow  is  detected. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 

Very  good!  But  if  things  turn  out  differently,  what 
then? 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 

Never  mind!  Take  advantage  of  the  right  moment. 
No  more  is  needed.  For  she  cannot  refrain,  she  must 
see  people  kneel  to  her. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 

Famous!  Brilliant!  A  splendid  plan!  (To  THE 
PAINTER,  with  a  low  bow  which  all  imitate.)  Honoured 
sir,  permit  us  to  greet  you! 

[122] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  PAINTER  (very  politely). 
My  greeting  implies  the  esteem  of  which  you  are  aware. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 

We  lay  our  esteem  at  your  feet!  (After  further  bows, 
which  THE  PAINTER  good-humouredly  returns,  THE  MAR- 
QUISES depart  at  the  centre.) 

(THE  PAINTER  smiling,  continues  to  paint.) 

THIRD  SCENE. 

THE  PAINTER.  THE  VALET  DE  CHAMBRE.  Then 
THE  DEAF  MAID  OF  HONOUR.  THE  SLEEPY  MAID  OF 
HONOUR.  THE  QUEEN. 

(THE  VALET  entering  from  the  left,  greets  THE  PAINTER 
with  condescending  nods,  and  ivalks  over  to  the  throne.) 

THE  PAINTER. 

Eh! — what?  .  .  .  Ah,  indeed!  (Laughs aloud.)  Strange 
world,  where  the  lackey  carries  his  head  the  highest! 

(VALET  after  arranging  the  cushions,  places  himself 
before  the  easel,  and  ogles  the  portrait.) 

THE  PAINTER. 
What  is  it  ? 

[123] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  VALET. 

(Pleasantly,  as  a  connoisseur.}  Ah — these  little  furrows 
in  the  cheeks!  (Benevolently.}  It  can't  be  expected, 
sir,  of  you  that  your  brush  should  do  justice  to  every 
fine  point.  Yet — aside  from  that — the  likeness  is  good. 

THE  PAINTER  (laughing  heartily}. 
Indeed  ? 

THE  VALET. 

(Opening  the  door  on  the  left,  announces.}  Her  Maj- 
esty! 

THE  PAINTER. 

I  scent  trouble  in  this,  and  a  voice  says  to  me  flee!  I 
have  already  committed  many  a  folly,  but  I  never  loved 
a  queen!  Take  heed  to  yourself! 

(THE  Two  MAIDS  OF  HONOUR  have  entered  during  this 
soliloquy,  and  have  taken  their  positions  to  the  right  and 
left  of  the  door.} 

THE  QUEEN. 

(Nods  cordially  to  THE  PAINTER,  and  takes  her  seat  on 
the  throne,  as  before.}  My  dear  Jean,  I  must  dispense 
with  you  now.  Don't  stay  too  late. 

(Exit  Jean.} 
[124] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

FOURTH  SCENE. 
THE  QUEEN.       THE  PAINTER.       THE  DEAF  MAID  OF 

HONOUR  (who  seats  herself  behind  the  screen).  THE 
SLEEPY  MAID  OF  HONOUR  (who  falls  asleep  directly  on 
a  chair  near  the  door  on  the  left). 

THE  QUEEN. 
Well,  master,  tell  me:  what  is  Genius  doing? 

THE  PAINTER. 
Oh,  your  Majesty,  he  is  pursuing  Beauty. 

THE  QUEEN. 

Yet  since  Beauty  lingers  no  more  on  earth,  your  genius 
will  soon  grow  weary. 

THE  PAINTER. 

How  so  ?  Does  your  Majesty  think  it  roams  in  the 
sky?  It  lingers  just  at  the  goal  and  cries:  Oh  behold! 
and  what  thou  beholdest,  that  give  to  eternity! 

THE  QUEEN. 

I   did  not  know,  my  dear  master,  that  you  were  so 

ready  with  your  compliments.    «Very  well!     As  a  man  of 

many  travels  and  of  great  reputation,  you  tread  continually 

on  the  scorn  of  men;    and  since  we  are  here  chatting  in 

[125] 


THE   ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

confidence,  take  heart  and  tell  me  without  reserve,  tell  me 
quite  frankly:   am  I  really  beautiful? 

THE  PAINTER. 

If  I  were  to  speak  as  a  man,  every  word  would  be  pre- 
sumptuous. Yet  you  ask  the  painter  only.  And  he  says 
that  his  hand  is  withered  with  anxiety  lest  on  this  canvas 
there  will  be  found  only  a  pale  blotted  vapour  seen  by  a 
blind  man. 

THE  QUEEN. 
There  spoke  the  painter.     But  what  says  the  man  ? 

THE  PAINTER. 
He  has  no  opinion,  your  Majesty! 

THE  QUEEN. 

What  a  pity!  One  hears  now  and  then  this  thing 
and  that  thing,  yet  that  seems  to  me  insipid  above  all 
things.  And  one  must  be  strict  and  always  be  sup- 
pressing— suppressing.  You  don't  need  that.  So  I  tell 
you  discreetly,  I  can't  resist  the  suspicion  that  my  beauty 
is  leaving  me.  Yes,  indeed.  And  besides  that,  I  am 
growing  old.  Yes,  indeed.  I  am  almost  thirty,  and 
the  matron  has  to  go  to  the  rear.  I  indeed  do  what  I  can. 
They  take  great  pains  with  me.  And  my  late  brother 
used  to  send  me  a  beauty  powder  from  the  holy  sepulchre 
[126] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

which  was  good  for  my  complexion.  Then  it  is  my  habit 
to  wash  myself  with  the  extract  of  lilies,  and  off  and  on  to 
nibble  at  arsenic  bonbons.  That  is  very  good — the  eyes 
flash,  and  the  blood  comes  to  the  cheeks.  .  .  .  (Alarmed.) 
It  seems  to  me  I  am  confiding  in  you. 

THE  PAINTER. 
Consider  me  as  a  thing — as  a  slave! 

THE  QUEEN. 
And  you  know  how  to  be  silent  ?     Tell  me — swear! 

THE  PAINTER. 

What  you  did  not  will  me  to  hear,  that  I  have  not 
heard.  What  I  did  not  hear,  I  cannot  keep  as  a  secret. 

THE  QUEEN. 

Lofty  sentiment  and  noble  will  find  expression  in  you. 
So,  in  all  silence,  I  may  show  your  heart  what  favours  are 
granted  to  you. 

THE  PAINTER  (tremulously). 
Am  I  worth  it  ?     And  if  you  regret  it  to-morrow  ? 

THE  QUEEN. 

I  do  not  know  a  to-morrow  nor  a  to-day.     My  weary 
sense  with  crippled  wing  never  strays  into  the  far  future, 
for  ah!    I,  poor,  poor  Queen,  suffer  from  intense  melan- 
[127] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

choly.  I  have  too  much  feeling.  I  have  told  you  that 
already,  and  then  I  am  tired  of  my  throne  in  this  world 
of  dreary  elegance,  where 

THE  PAINTER. 
Your  Majesty!     Remember  the  ladies  there! 

THE  QUEEN. 

Ah,  the  ladies !  No  chance  favours  me.  That  you  have 
perceived  already.  Yet  there  is  no  question  of  the  ladies. 
One  doesn't  hear  a  word;  the  other  sleeps,  even  while 
standing  up. 

THE  PAINTER. 
Sure  enough.  .  .  .  Yet  when  I  consider 

THE  QUEEN. 

Consider  nothing.  .  .  .  Give  me  only  a  consoling  word, 
which  in  the  sultriness  of  this  perverted  nature  may  pene- 
trate my  soul  like  a  breath  from  the  forest.  You  are  a 
man! 

THE  PAINTER  (laughing  to  himself). 
Who  has  lost  his  head! 

THE  QUEEN. 

So  I  saw  him  in  my  dreams.     I  feel,  too,  that  you  could 
quite  overflow,  and  I  am  a  little  afraid  of  it. 
[128] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  PAINTER. 

(Controlling  himself  with  difficulty.)  Oh,  fear  nothing. 
I  know  very  well  the  barrier  between  me  and  the  height 
of  your  throne.  Not  a  desire,  not  a  thought,  rises  to  you. 

THE  QUEEN. 
And  yet  you  think  that  I  am  beautiful  ? 

THE  PAINTER  (impulsively). 

Yes,  you  are  beautiful!  You — (restraining  himself). 
Your  Majesty,  I  beg  you  to  turn  a  little  more  to  the  left. 

THE  QUEEN. 

(Turns  her  head  quite  to  the  left.)     So? 

THE  PAINTER. 
Yes. 

THE  QUEEN. 
What  are  you  painting  now  ? 

THE  PAINTER. 
Your  hand. 

THE  QUEEN  (pointing  to  her  face). 
And  it  is  for  that,  that  I  am  to  turn  to  the  left  ? 

THE  PAINTER. 

I  meant,  just  to  the  centre. 

[129] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  QUEEN. 
Is  the  hand  well  posed? 

THE  PAINTER. 
Very  well. 

THE  QUEEN. 

Can  you  see  it  from  where  you  sit  ? 

THE  PAINTER. 

No,  yes — (she  laughs).     Forgive  me  if  I   am   talking 
nonsense. 

THE  QUEEN  (spreading  out  her  hand). 
Here   you   have   it!     How   the   sapphire   sparkles!     A 
beautiful  stone!  .  .  .  You  praised  my  face,  but  yet  you 
don't  say  whether  you  like  my  hand. 

THE  PAINTER. 

Instead  of  finding  fault  with  me,  look!    I  have  painted 
it. 

THE  QUEEN  (pouting). 

You  have  indeed  painted  it,  but  you  have  not  kissed  it 
From  that  I  conclude  that  it  is  not  attractive. 

% 

THE  PAINTER. 

And  forgive  me,  if  I  transgress  the  rules  of  your  court, 
more  from  shyness  than  from  want  of  intelligence.     Even 
so,  the  sailor  knows  well  the  laws  of  the  stars'  movements 
and  yet  must  often  sail  a  false  course. 
[130] 


THE    ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  QUEEN. 

It  seems  as  if  you  wished  to  avoid  the  subject.  I  was 
speaking  of  a  hand — you  speak  of  stars. 

THE  PAINTER. 

You  were  speaking  of  your  hand  and  that  is  so  far  from 
me  that  even  the  eternal  will,  the  might  which  compels 
the  starry  heaven,  brings  it  not  one  inch  nearer  to  me. 

THE  QUEEN. 

Indeed,  do  you  believe  that  ?  (She  rises  and  goes  to  the 
easel.}  Now  pray  what  happened  ?  You  willed  nothing 
and  compelled  nothing,  yet  please  observe — the  hand  is 
there. 

THE  PAINTER. 

Madam,  where  others  fell  down  before  you,  here  it  is 
my  duty  to  warn  you.  I  am  not  a  simple  shepherd,  and 
never  do  I  let  people  make  game  of  me. 

THE  QUEEN. 

Ah,  now  it  becomes  interesting!  You  look  at  me  as 
savagely  as  if  a  hatred  quite  unappeased  and  unappeas- 
able possessed  you. 

THE  PAINTER. 

A   hatred?     No,   what   I   laughingly   veiled  from  you 
was  not  hatred,  no — vet  if  I  hate,  I  hate  myself,  because, 
[131] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

dazzled  with  splendour,  like  a  drowning  man  I  grasp  at  the 
little  words  which  you  mockingly  deal  out  to  me;  because, 
after  the  manner  of  a  venal  courtier,  I  quite  forgot  the 
pride  of  the  man,  and  by  your  favour  ate  sweetmeats 
greedily  from  these  hands!  Yes,  just  show  them — the 
white  ,iry  hands  laden  with  the  splendid  tokens  of  love: 
yet  stop — think  of  the  end,  by  the  holy  God — I  recognise 
myself  no  more. 

THE  QUEEN. 

A 
Never  yet  did  I  hear  such  words. 

THE  PAINTER. 

When  did  you  ever  bow  yourself  to  force  ?  When  did 
passion  build  you  a  throne  on  the  ruins  of  the  universe, 
the  only  throne  to  win  which  is  more  than  an  idle  pastime, 
on  which  in  splendid  grandeur,  instead  of  all  the  queens, 
sits  Woman!  And  if  a  drone  playing  in  colours  ever 
indeed  won  a  smile  from  you,  take  from  me  but  your 
crown,  for  I,  oh  Queen,  am — a  man! 

THE  QUEEN. 

(Shrinking  back  to  the  throne.)  Enough,  I  should  not 
listen  to  you  any  longer. 

THE  PAINTER. 

Yov  must.     You  have  so  willed  it. 
[132] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  QUEEN. 
I  will  beg  you,  sir,  I  will  conjure  you. 

THE  PAINTER. 

Too  late.  You  offered  me  love's  pay  as  you  would 
throw  a  gold  piece  into  the  cap  of  a  beggar  crouching 
in  the  street,  and  if  I,  thrilled  now  by  hot  desire,  employ 
the  only  moment  of  life  which  commits  you  into  my 
hands,  I  will  not  have  you  play  with  me  any  longer.  I 
will,  and  you — you — must — before  this  throne  our  alliance 
is  ratified.  Take  away  the  hand.  That,  others  may 
kiss,  but  I,  Queen,  will  have  the  mouth.  I  will 

FIFTH  SCENE. 
THE  SAME.     THE  MARSHAL. 

THE  QUEEN. 

(Who  until  now  has  listened,  anxious  but  not  altogether 
unfriendly,  collects  herself,  and  draws  herself  up  in  sudden 
anger.)  I  deliver  this  insolent  fellow  to  you,  Marshal. 
Deal  with  him  as  he  deserves.  (She  goes  to  the  door. 
There  she  stops,  and  gives  THE  SLEEPY  MAID  OF  HONOUR 
two  angry  little  blows  with  her  fan.  The  latter  springs 
up,  bows,  and  goes  out  gravely  behind  THE  QUEEN,  with 
THE  DEAF  MAID  OF  HONOUR,  who  has  risen.) 

[133] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

SIXTH  SCENE. 
THE  MARSHAL.       THE  PAINTER. 

THE  MARSHAL. 
Sir,  if  you  wish  to  say  a  paternoster,  make  haste  with  it. 

THE  PAINTER. 

Your  magnanimity  affects  me  deeply,  Marshal.  But 
my  soul  carries  light  baggage.  Even  so,  it  will  journey 
to  heaven.  And  instead  of  a  last  testament,  I  present  this 
portrait  to  you,  so  that,  in  the  confusion,  no  serious  danger 
may  happen  to  it. 

THE  MARSHAL. 

By  your  will,  it  has  become  mine,  and  I  will  gladly  keep 
it.  So,  draw  your  sword! 

THE  PAINTER. 
I,  sir  ? 

THE  MARSHAL. 
So,  draw! 

THE  PAINTER. 
No,  that  you  will  never  live  to  see! 

THE  MARSHAL. 

Then  why  do  you  wear  a  sword  ? 
[134] 


THE  ETERNAL   MASCULINE 

THE  PAINTER. 
Because  I  choose  to. 

THE  MARSHAL. 
You  are  a  coward. 

THE  PAINTER. 

(Controlling  himself,  with  a  smiling  bow.)  And  you 
are  a  hero!  (In  the  meanwhile  the  door  at  the  centre  is 
opened.  THE  MARQUISES  put  their  heads  in,  listening. 
THE  PAINTER  observes  it  and  takes  his  sword  from  the 
table  where  he  has  just  laid  it.)  See!  As  the  traveller 
uses  the  staff  to  defend  himself  against  dogs,  so  I  must 
wield  it.  Such  people  are  to  be  found  at  all  doors  where 
small  men  work  and  lie  in  wait  and  play  the  parasite. 
(THE  MARQUISES  draw  back.  The  door  at  the  centre  is 
suddenly  closed.)  Yet  ever  to  bare  the  sword  against  you, 
with  whom,  out  of  a  timid  trustfulness,  a  bond,  a  splendid 
bond  of  pride,  entwined  me;  whom  of  all  the  incompletely 
great  men,  I  admiringly  called  the  only  great  man— if  ever 
I  were  to  be  guilty  of  such  ignominy,  I  should  not  find 
my  small  share  of  peace  even  in  the  shade  of  the  most 
beautiful  church-yard  lindens. 

THE  MARSHAL. 

Are  you  still  young  ? 

[135] 


THE   ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  PAINTER. 

I  am  not  exactly  old,  yet  my  fortune  has  been  so  check- 
ered and  various  that  I  joyfully  had  given  seven  every-day 
lives  for  one  surfeit  of  this.  And  in  the  end — however 
one  may  work  and  strive,  it  is  man's  destiny:  he  dies  of 
Woman.  Therefore,  instead  of  passing  away  slowly  by 
my  own,  I  will  quickly  find  my  end  by  the  wife  of  another. 
My  chariot  of  victory  stops  indeed  suddenly.  I  greet  its 
well-appointed  driver — and  I  greet  my  judge.  Thrust  on ! 

THE  MARSHAL. 

I  may  be  a  judge,  but  I  am  not  an  executioner.  So  do 
me  the  favour 

THE  PAINTER. 

And  fighting,  let  you  run  me  through?  No,  Marshal! 
That  I  must  refuse.  See!  Each  of  us  two  has  his  art. 
You  employ  the  sword,  I  the  palette.  How  would  it  be  if 
I  should  say  to  you  now  in  accordance  with  the  practice 
of  my  craft:  Come,  we  will  paint  on  a  wager?  And  you 
do  not  know  the  merest  precept  of  light-value,  azure, 
modelling.  Very  well,  you  are  a  dead  man  for  me.  After- 
ward you  might — that  is  allowed  you — come  to  life  into 
the  bargain,  if  you  liked. 

THE  MARSHAL. 

You  are  mocking  me,  surely! 
[136] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  PAINTER. 

Surely,  no!  Yet  every  fight  should  be  a  fight  on  a 
wager.  Because  in  a  fight  between  men  you  are  a  com- 
plete man,  I  should  like  to  show  that  I  too  can  do  some- 
thing. You  are  laughing. 

THE  MARSHAL. 

One  who  is  so  nimble  with  his  tongue  has,  it  is  said,  a 
sure  hand.  Perhaps,  too,  many  a  device  unknown  to  me 
is  concealed  in  the  wielding  of  your  sword.  So  be  quick, 
I  pray  you.  I  hear  the  sound  of  footsteps.  Do  you  stare 
at  me  in  silence  ? 

THE  PAINTER. 
Still  a  little  farther  to  the  right! 

THE  MARSHAL. 
What  does  that  mean  ? 

THE  PAINTER. 

So! — And  that  may  not  be  looked  at,  because  one  is 
mouldering  away!  I  cannot  get  over  it.  Never  yet  have 
I  found  lines  like  those,  never  yet  a  working  so  gloriously 
true  in  the  frontal  plexus  of  veins,  in  the  eyebrows,  as  if 
one  by  pure  will  became  a  giant.  The  body  delicate — the 
cheeks  thin;  for  Nature  when  she  fashions  her  best, 
[137] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

makes   no   boast   of   vigorous   strength.  .  .  .  The   wish 
overpowers  me — Before  I  die,  sir,  I  must  paint  you. 

THE  MARSHAL. 
You  seem  altogether  mad. 

THE  PAINTER. 

I  beg  you  to  grant  me  a  respite.  I  shall  be  glad  to  let 
you  kill  me,  yet  only  after  your  portrait  is  finished. 

THE  MARSHAL. 

And  by  your  creation,  you  hope  to  obtain  all  manner  of 
favour,  and  quietly  to  escape.  You  are  cunning  indeed. 

THE  PAINTER. 

It  is  the  peculiar  pleasure  of  magnanimity  to  suspect 
the  magnanimity  of  others. 

THE  MARSHAL. 
Are  you  reading  me  a  lecture  ? 

THE  PAINTER. 

It  seems  that  I  must.  I  must  make  an  effort  to  win 
your  heart's  esteem,  which  is  worth  more  to  me  than  any 
amount  of  foolish  play  with  briskly  wielded  swords. 

THE  MARSHAL. 

By  heaven,  sir,  you  risk  a  great  deal! 
[138] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  PAINTER. 

I  risk  nothing.  I  am  a  man  of  death.  The  world  lies 
behind  me — a  many-colored  picture  which  God  has  be- 
strewed with  crumbs  of  white  bread,  where  each  one 
snatches  up  and  devours  and  yet  does  not  satisfy  his  ap- 
petite. Only  in  intoxication  can  a  child  of  fortune  know 
how  the  flowers  beneath  bloom  and  wither.  I  have  been 
able  to,  and  my  soul  with  every  new  work  drank  to  satiety. 
What  matters  it  if  life  has  deceived  me  ?  I  asked  noth- 
ing of  it — that  was  my  strength.  You  see  I  am  pronounc- 
ing my  obituary.  Yet  I  depart  gladly.  .  .  .  Already  the 
new  host  approaches  and  swarms  for  me  in  forests  and  on 
plains:  What  matters  it  that  this  hand  was  mortal;  for 
the  portraying  is  as  eternal  as  the  image. 

THE  MARSHAL. 

You  are  mistaken.  Only  the  deed  is  eternal.  If  with 
bloody  sword  it  did  not  teach  mankind  to  remember,  I 
should  perish  like  a  seed  sown  by  the  wind. 

THE  PAINTER. 

It  is  you  who  are  mistaken,  sir.  Not  your  deed  has 
life.  It  soon  follows  you  into  the  grave.  The  portrait  of 
the  dead  which  we  give  to  posterity,  in  song  and  form,  in 
parchment  and  stone,  this  it  is  which  belongs  to  immor- 
tality. By  this  you  shall  be  hereafter  loved  and  hated. — 
[139] 


THE   ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

So  even  if  Achilles  destroys  the  whole  world,  he  has  but 
to  let  Homer  live. 

THE  MARSHAL. 

And  so  I,  you  ?  Yet  no  song  tells  us  that  Homer  ever 
kneeled  before  Helen. 

THE  PAINTER. 

Not  that.  But  every  child  knows  why:  the  poor 
singer  was  blind. 

THE  MARSHAL. 

Your  brush,  alas,  will  not  help  you  at  all.  Yet  I  should 
be  well  disposed  toward  you.  For  he  who  in  death 
seems  to  remain  a  trifler,  has  taken  life  in  earnest. 

THE  PAINTER. 
That  is  true. 

THE  MARSHAL. 
I  am  sorry  for  you. 

THE  PAINTER. 
Without  cause,  I  assure  you! 

THE  MARSHAL. 

And  why  could  you  not  be  silent  ?    How  did  you  so 
dare,  contrary  to  good  reason    to  climb  to  your  Queen  ? 
Did  nothing  within  you  say :  this  is  a  crime  ? 
[140] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  PAINTER. 
You  call  it  crime — I  call  it  folly! 

THE  MARSHAL. 

Do  you  pursue  your  secret  pleasures,  then,  like  a  sly, 
cold-hearted  thief?  The  one  thing  fails  which  spoke  in 
your  favour,  the  almighty  love  which  disturbs  the  brain! 

THE  PAINTER. 

Marshal,  see,  love  is  a  tribute  which  we  piously  pay  to 
eternal  beauty;  and  since  Nature  in  creative  pride  has 
poured  it  forth  out  of  her  fulness,  how  should  we  in 
fretful  resignation  say:  "This  one  I  love — not  that 
one"?  In  my  love,  I  love  only  the  picture  which  pro- 
ceeds from  the  lap  of  pure  forms;  even  as  this  Queen 
bestows  it  as  a  favour,  so  it  sheds  its  light  far  and  near;  and 
wherever  a  picture  invites  me  to  a  banquet,  my  heart  is 
present  without  delay. 

THE  MARSHAL. 

Yet  I  ask  you  whether  this  picture  invited  you  to  a 
banquet.  Speak  quickly — by  my  sword! 

THE  PAINTER. 

You  know  very  well  that  no  gallant  man  should  move 
an  eyelash  at  such  a  question. 
[141] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  MARSHAL. 

You  do  not  love  her — only  like  a  faun  you  make  bold 
to  court  her  madly.  (Taking  hold  of  him.)  But  I  love 
her,  and  for  this  reason,  you  must  die. 

THE  PAINTER. 

Forgive  me  if  I  am  surprised  at  your  logic.  It  is  a  great 
honour  for  me  to  know  whom  you  love;  moreover,  you 
have  already  told  me  repeatedly  that  I  must  die;  yet  that 
you  are  confused  as  to  this — is — indeed — only — temper. 
And  see,  it  is  but  proper  that  you  love  her.  The  con' 
trary — according  to  court  manners  and  practice — would 
be  unnatural.  Yet  the  more  important  question  seems 
to  be:  does  she  love  you?  You  look  away.  Very  well, 
I  will  tell  you.  She  has  met  you  with  smiles  and  furtive 
questions,  with  sweet  glances,  half  longingly,  has  promised 
you  a  thousand  delights  and  gradually  has  subdued  you 
and  your  obstinacy.  Yet  if  it  involved  keeping  her 
promises,  she  would  understand  how  to  wrap  herself  in  her 

innocence. It  was  so — was  it  not?    You  are  silent, 

because  you  are  ashamed  of  the  game.     Pardon  me,  sir, 
if  I  irritate  your  wounds. 

THE  MARSHAL. 

It  seems  you  set  spies  at  the  door! 
[142] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  PAINTER. 

Why  spies  ?  Eve's  old  practice,  that,  Marshal,  I  know 
well.  Yet  what  lies  behind  it,  whether  true  love  or  not, 
for  you  or  me,  cannot  be  deciphered.  If  I  should  survive 
the  duel,  she  would  probably  love  me:  yet  because  it  is 
decreed  that  by  your  arm,  you  should  be  the  victor  in  this 
absurd  quarrel,  she  will  love  you,  Marshal.  Where 
woman's  glory  rules  the  world,  that  is  the  law — so  says 
natural  history.  Do  you  say  nothing  ? 

THE  MARSHAL. 

A  poison  is  distilled  from  your  words  which  eats  into 
the  very  marrow  of  my  soul. 

THE  PAINTER. 

Only  the  truth!  I  swear  it,  I  promise  it!  And  since 
against  my  wish  I  am  still  very  much  alive,  because  of 
your  favour,  be  of  use  to  me,  sir,  in  an  experiment. 

THE  MARSHAL. 
Explain  yourself! 

THE  PAINTER. 

In  order  to  know  exactly  how  you  are  thought  of  in  the 
highest  place,  you  must  perish  in  the  duel. 

THE  MARSHAL. 
In  the  duel  ? 

[143] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  PAINTER. 
Understand  me  rightly:  only  in  appearance. 

THE  MARSHAL. 

And  my  reputation  as  a  swordsman  goes  with  it  into 
the  bargain. 

THE  PAINTER. 
Oh,  not  at  all!    You  will  get  up  again. 

THE  MARSHAL  (laughing). 

My  friend,  I  am  not  sorry  that  you  are  still  alive.  I  have 
become  reconciled  with  you,  and  I  who  have  dared  a 
great  deal  in  toil  and  strife,  am  astonished  at  the  extent  of 
your  courage.  Very  well,  what  your  cunning  mind  has 
devised  for  your  escape,  I  accept.  Yet  woe  to  you  if  this 
time  you  do  not  win!  And  now  to  the  work! 

THE  PAINTER. 

Come  on!  .  .  .  Yet  no,  by  your  leave!  So  that  they  may 
believe  the  incredible  about  me,  I  will  arrange  the  thing 
in  naturalistic  fashion.  (He  draws  his  sword.)  Is  the 
door  locked?  (He  walks  to  the  door  at  the  centre,  and 
points  his  sword  at  the  keyhole.)  Eyes  away!  I  am  go- 
ing to  thrust!  (A  scream  is  uttered  in  the  antechamber.) 
And  now  look  out!  I  am  going  to  mark  horrid  pools  of 
spilt  blood!  (He  mixes  colours  on  the  palette,  and  hands 
[144] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

the   MARSHAL  his  sword.)     Hold   it,   I  beg  you.     (He 

smears  the  sword  blade  with  his  brush.) 

THE  MARSHAL. 
My  blood! 

THE  PAINTER. 

Without  doubt!  Merci.  (Takes  back  his  sword.) 
Just  one  tap  upon  the  breast.  Yet  in  case  you  wish  that 
I  spare  the  waistcoat  ? 

THE  MARSHAL. 
By  no  means!    That  would  be  too  much  loss  of  blood! 

THE  PAINTER. 

Just  as  you  please.  (He  moves  the  easel  and  table  to 
one  side.  Softly.)  And  make  no  mistake,  the  door  will 
open  at  the  first  clash  of  blades. 

THE  MARSHAL. 
Are  you  ready  ? 

(THE  PAINTER  nods  assent.     They  fence.) 

THE  MARSHAL. 
Famous.  .  .  .  Do  you  know  that  feint  ? 

THE  PAINTER. 

It  is  a  good  one,  is  it  not  ? 

[145] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  MARSHAL. 
Who  taught  you  that  ? 

THE  PAINTER. 
And  this!  .  .  . 

THE  MARSHAL. 
There  you  missed  the  quint. 

THE  PAINTER. 
Damnation!  . 

THE  MARSHAL. 
Ah,  that  was  admirable! 

THE  PAINTER. 
Yet  at  painting  I  do  better.  ...  Is  any  one  listening  ? 

THE  MARSHAL. 
They  are  huddled  together  in  a  confused  group. 

THE  PAINTER. 
Now,  if  you  please! 

THE  MARSHAL. 
Only  be  at  it! 

THE  PAINTER. 

Be  careful  of  the  throne,  or  you  will  get  a  bump  if  you 
fall!  (He  lunges  at  THE  MARSHAL,  far  under  the  armpit. 
THE  MARSHAL  falls.  THE  MARQUISES  who  are  pressing 

9 

in  at  the  half-open  door,  draw  back  in  horror.) 
[146] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

SEVENTH  SCENE. 

THE  SAME.  THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK.  THE  MARQUIS 
IN  PALE  BLUE.  THE  OTHER  MARQUISES. 

THE  PAINTER. 

Listen  to  me,  gentlemen!  What  are  you  about  in 
there  ?  Stay  and  bear  witness  to  what  you  saw. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK  (approaching  timidly). 
We  stand  benumbed  at  such  a  glorious  deed. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE  (likeunse). 
And  we  are  almost  beside  ourself  with  admiration. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 
What  ?    Really  dead  ? 

THE  PAINTER  (tauntingly). 
Sir,  you  seem  to  be  in  doubt  ? 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 

Oh,  dear  man,  how  could  you  think  it  ?  I  wished  only 
to  afford  myself  the  rapture  of  seeing  whether  you  had 
altogether  freed  us. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 

Yes,  indeed,  freed!     For  even  although  you  hated  him, 
you  can  never  imagine  how,  in  the  chambers  of  this  castle, 
he  has  trodden  on  our  dignity. 
[147] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 

He  stalked  about,  puffed  up  with  self-conceit,  and 
when  we  were  rising  in  the  esteem  of  his  or  her  majes- 

ty- 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 
Then  came  this  man  with  a  couple  of  new  triumphs. 

THE  PAINTER. 
How  odious! 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK. 

If  you  please,  sir,  how  we  have  laughed  when  his  dear 
name  rang  through  all  the  streets  after  some  brand-new 
fight!  As  the  clever  man  is  aware,  fools  advertise  fools. 
And  without  going  too  near  him,  I  will 

THE  MARSHAL. 

There,  wait! 

• 

(ALL  THE  MARQUISES  starting  ivith  fear.) 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PINK  (trembling). 
You  said? 

THE  PAINTER. 
I  said  nothing  at  all. 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 

Yet  plainly 

[148] 


THE   ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

EIGHTH  SCENE. 

THE  SAME.  THE  VALET  DE  CHAMBRE.  THE  QUEEN. 
THE  DEAF  MAID  OF  HONOUR.  THE  SLEEPY  MAID  OF 
HONOUR. 

THE  VALET  (announces). 
Her  Majesty! 

THE  QUEEN. 

I  heard  a  rumour  which  greatly  displeased  me  and 
troubled  my  peace  of  mind  extremely.  Is  it  true  ?  .  .  . 
There  lies  the  great  hero;  and  truly,  in  death  he  seems 
even  more  insignificant  than  he  was — as  insignificant  as 
one  of  the  most  insignificant.  Yet  mourn  with  me!  We 
have  had  a  great  loss.  Even  if  ambition  urge  you  on 
with  a  double  spur,  many  a  fine  day  will  come  and  go 
before  his  like  will  be  born  to  us. 

(THE  MARSHAL  clears  his  throat  softly.) 

THE  QUEEN. 

May  his  courtliness,  too,  be  pleasantly  remembered! 
After  his  campaign  he  always  brought  back  to  his  Queen 
the  best  of  the  splendid  spoil  of  his  booty.  That  touched 
my  royal  heart  and  will  be  cited  as  a  glorious  example. 
And  yet  now  to  you  .  .  .  What  did  they  say  to  me  ?  It 
sounds  almost  untrue  and  unnatural:  are  you  the  David 
[149] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

of  our  Goliath?  I  use  the  term  "Goliath"  only  figura- 
tively. For  though  we  are  mourning  at  his  bier,  it  cannot 
be  said  that  he  was  a  giant.  Yet  we  know  his  disposition 
was  haughty.  (THE  MARQUISES  eagerly  assent.)  Surely 
he  broke  in  upon  you  in  sudden  anger  ?  You  are  silent 
out  of  generosity.  So  I  will  graciously  forgive  this  fault 
and  another  fault  too.  (THE  PAINTER  clears  his  throat 
softly.  She  stretches  out  her  hand  to  him,  which  he  kisses.) 
And  be  not  grieved!  (To  THE  MARQUISES.)  Does  not 
what  has  happened  seem  almost  like  a  judgment  of  God  ? 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 
It  is  true!     Here  a  higher  power  has  been  at  work. 

THE  DEAF  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 
Pardon  me,  your  Majesty!    The  Marshal  is  laughing. 

THE  MARQUISES  (muttering  in  horror). 
Is  he  laughing?     Is  he  laughing?     (Silence.) 

THE  MARSHAL  (rising). 

Madam,  forgive  me!     In  the  fight  a  sudden  fainting  fit 
overcame  me.  » 

THE  MARQUIS  IN  PALE  BLUE. 

(Pointing  at  THE  PAINTER'S  sword  lying  on  the  floor.) 
And  what  is  this  blood  ?     (Movement  by  THE  PAINTER.) 
[150] 


THE   ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  MARSHAL. 

Until  the  return  to  my  senses  relieved  me  (with  emphasis) 
of  this  trouble  and  another  trouble. 

THE  QUEEN. 

(Quickly  collecting  herself.  Sharply.)  My  congratu- 
lations, sir!  And  my  sympathy  as  well!  What  has 
happened  to  you  gives  me  unspeakable  distress.  The 
court  atmosphere  is  indeed  rather  close,  and  seems  in- 
supportable to  great  conquerors;  which  often  betrays 
itself  in  wrong  fancies  and  swoons.  Therefore  I  am 
obliged  to  exercise  my  power  as  Queen,  and  protect  your 
good  health  against  danger.  Jean,  announce  me  to 
his  Majesty!  (Exit  JEAN  on  the  left.  THE  QUEEN, 
punishing  THE  PAINTER  with  a  glance  of  unspeakable 
scorn,  follows  slowly.  The  two  Maids  of  Honour  go  after 
her.) 

NINTH  SCENE. 

THE  MARSHAL.       THE    PAINTER.       THE    MARQUISES 

(in  the  background). 

THE  MARSHAL. 

I  thank  you,  sir!  The  mists  are  dissipated.  The 
eye  sees  clearly  once  more;  the  will  has  a  free  hand. 

THE  PAINTER. 

But  I  was  silently  executed.     Did  you  notice  her  look  ? 
[151] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  MARSHAL  (pointing  at  THE  MARQUISES). 
Of  looks,  there  are  sufficient. 

THE  PAINTER  (snatching  up  his  sword). 
Oho!    I  am  always  expecting  foul  play. 

THE  MARSHAL. 

For  what  reason  ?  Get  along  with  you !  Get  along  with 
you!  Be  quick! 

THE  PAINTER. 
It  is  true.     You  are  right.     Here,  we  are  ruined. 

THE  MARSHAL. 
And  what  is  to  become  of  you  ? 

THE  PAINTER. 

That  has  never  troubled  me.  The  world  is  wide. 
One  can  walk  about  it,  and  find  something  to  sketch  by 
the  way. 

THE  MARSHAL. 
How  would  it  be^if  you  went  with  me? 

THE  PAINTER. 
Where? 

THE  MARSHAL. 
To  the  camp. 

[152] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  PAINTER. 
Yes,  and  what  is  there  ? 

THE  MARSHAL. 

Plenty  for  you!  You  will  find  gay  fare,  and  pastimes 
and  diversions.  As  much  as  you  want. 

THE  PAINTER. 
And  are  there  fights  too  ? 

THE  MARSHAL. 
Indeed,  there  are! 

THE  PAINTER. 
And  will  there  be  a  bold  reconnoissance  by  night  ? 

THE  MARSHAL. 
Often. 

THE  PAINTER. 

Capital!  I  will  ride  with  you.  In  my  mind's  eye  I 
see  already  golden  moonrise,  and  silver  vapour  on  the 
dark  alder  bush.  .  .  .  Are  there  also  songs  and  notes  of 
the  mandolin  ? 

THE  MARSHAL. 
Plenty  of  them! 

THE  PAINTER. 

Hurrah!    There  is  music  too! 
[153] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  MARSHAL. 

And  in  the  story-telling  by  night  at  the  camp-fire  many 
a  tale  of  human  destiny  will  be  unfolded  to  you. 

THE  PAINTER. 

A  world  of  pictures!  (More  softly.)  And  love  ad- 
ventures ? 

THE  MARSHAL. 

If  you  choose  to  call  them  "adventures." 

THE  PAINTER. 

Agreed,  sir!  And  an  excess  of  happiness  will  flow  out 
of  my  soul  like  a  prayer. — Yet  it  seems  I  am  forgetting 
the  greatest  happiness.  I  shall  be  with  you.  I  may 
paint  you. 

THE  MARSHAL* 
Take  care! 

TENTH  SCENE. 
THE  SAME.  THE  VALET  DE  CHAMBRE.  THE  QUEEN. 

THE  TWO  MAIDS  OF  HONOUR. 

VALET. 
Your  Majesty! 

(THE  QUEEN  rustles  over  from  the  left  to  the  right,  with- 
out bestowing  a  glance  on  the  two  men.     At  the  door  on  the 
right  she  gives  the  VALET  a  scroll  with  which  he  advances. 
Then  she  goes  out,  followed  by  the  Maids  of  Honour.) 
[154] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  MARSHAL. 

Now  the  hastily  contrived  reward  of  our  misdeeds  is  at 
hand.  (To  JEAN.)  My  noble  sir,  bestir  yourself.  (To 
THE  PAINTER.)  That  is  the  handsome  Jean  as  an  angel 
of  justice!  (He  unfolds  the  scroll  and  reads,  laughing.) 

THE  PAINTER. 
And  to  me,  what  do  you  bring  to  me  ? 

THE  VALET. 

(With  an  expression  of  awkward  contempt.)  You  ? — 
Nothing! 

THE  PAINTER. 
Exquisite! 

THE  VALET. 

But  yes!  Your  reward  shall  be  meted  out  to  you  in 
the  office  of  the  Marshal  of  the  court. 

THE  PAINTER  (amused). 
Indeed  ? 

THE  VALET. 

Yes!  (Behind  the  scenes  on  the  right  are  heard  cries 
of  "Jean!  Jean!") 

THE  DEAF  MAID  OF  HONOUR. 

(Hurries  in  from  the  right.)  Jean !  Have  you  forgotten 
her  Majesty? 

[155] 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  VALET  (sweetly). 
Oh,  no!    Tell  her  Majesty  I  am  coining  directly. 

THE  PAINTER  AND  THE  MARSHAL. 
(Look  at  each  other,  and  break  out  into  laughter.) 

THE  MARSHAL. 

Look,  look,  my  friend!  He  seems  to  have  got  into 
bad  habits. 

THE  PAINTER  (pointing  at  him). 

It  is  rightly  so.  I  had  almost  begged  him,  at  the  court 
where  we  men  are  forbidden,  proudly  to  represent  the 
eternal  masculine.  (Laughing,  they  both  bow  to  him.) 

(Extt  THE  VALET.) 

THE  PAINTER. 

But  we  are  going  into  the  flowery  open,  to  our  merry 
pursuits. 

THE  MARSHAL. 

And  to  combat!  (They  walk  arm  in  arm,  bowing  right 
and  left,  toward  the  door,  past  THE  MARQUISES,  who,  with- 
out hiding  their  disrespect,  nevertheless  recognise  them  in  a 
not  uncourtly  fashion.) 

CURTAIN. 
[156] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Book  Slip-35m-9,'62(D2218s4)4280 


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College 
Library 

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M82E5a 
1910 


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